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 +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+

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MLLE. FOUCHETTE

_THIRD EDITION_

 [Illustration: FOUCHETTE]

MLLE. FOUCHETTE

BY

CHARLES THEODOREMURRAY

ILLUSTRATED BY W. H. RICHARDSONE. BENSON KENNEDY & FRANCIS DAY

[Illustration]

PHILADELPHIA & LONDONJ. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANYMCMII

COPYRIGHT, 1902BYCHARLES THEODORE MURRAY

_All rights reserved_

Published March, 1902

_Printed byJ. B Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A. _

TO

MR. R. F. ("TODY") HAMILTON

A CHARMING GENTLEMAN, DELIGHTFULTRAVELLING COMPANION, PRACTICALPHILOSOPHER, ANDRELIABLE FRIEND

ILLUSTRATIONS

FOUCHETTE _Frontispiece_

HIS STILL UNCONSCIOUS BURDEN Page 136

SHE SEIZED JEAN BY THE ARM " 182

IT WAS A CRITICAL MOMENT " 383

MLLE. FOUCHETTE

CHAPTER I

"Get along, you little beast!"

Madame Podvin accompanied her admonition with a vigorous blow from herheavy hand. 

"Out, I say!"

Thump. 

"You lazy caniche!"

Thump. 

"You get no breakfast here this morning!"

Thump. 

"Out with you!"

Thump. 

In the mean time the unhappy object of these objurgations and blowshad been rapidly propelled towards the open door, and was with a finalthump knocked into the street. 

A stray dog? Oh, no; a dog is never abused in this way in Paris. Itwould probably cause a riot. 

It was only a wee bit of a child, --dirty, clothed in rags, withtangled blonde hair that had never, apparently, seen a comb, and whoselittle bare feet and thin ankles were incrusted with the dried filthof the gutters. 

Being only a child, the few neighbors who were abroad at that earlyhour merely grinned at her as she picked herself up and limped awaywithout a cry or a word. 

"She's a tough one, " muttered a witness. 

"She's got to be mighty tough to stand the Podvin, " responded another. 

In the rapidly increasing distance the child seemed to justify theseremarks; for she began to step out nimbly towards the town ofCharenton without wasting time over her grievances. 

"All the same, I'm hungry, " she said to herself, "and the streets ofCharenton will be mighty poor picking half an hour hence. "

She paused presently to examine a pile of garbage in front of a house. But the dogs had been there before her, --there was nothing to eatthere. 

These piles of garbage awaited the tour of the carts; they began toappear at an early hour in the morning, and within an hour had beenpicked over by rag-pickers, dogs, and vagrants until absolutelynothing was left that could be by any possibility utilized by theseearly investigators. Here and there two or three dogs contested thespoils of a promising pile, to separate with watchful amity to gnawindividual bones. 

As it was a principal highway from the Porte de Charenton to the town, the piles of refuse had been pretty thoroughly overhauled by the dogsand human scum that infested the barrier. 

Finally, the girl stopped as a stout woman appeared at a grille with apaper of kitchen refuse which she was about to throw into the street. 

They looked at each other steadily, --the child with eager, hungryeyes; the woman with resentment. 

"There is nothing here for you, " rasped the latter, retaining her holdupon the folded parcel as she advanced to the curb and glanced up anddown the street. 

The child, who had unconsciously carried her rag-picker's hook, stoodwaiting in the middle of the road. 

"Don't you hear me?" repeated the woman, threateningly. "Be off withyou!"

"It is a public road, " said the little one. 

"You beggar----"

"I haven't asked you for anything, madame, " interrupted the child, with quivering voice, --"I'd die before asking you for anything, --but Ihave as much right to the road as you. "

There was a flash of defiance in the small blue eyes now. 

Two street dogs came up on a run. The woman threw down her parcel tothem and, retreating, slammed the iron gate after her. 

With a wicked swing of her hook the child drove the dogs away andhastily inspected the garbage. A piece of stale crust and somehalf-decayed fruit rewarded her. A gristled end of beef she threw tothe dogs, that watched her wistfully a few yards away. 

"Voilà! I divide fair, messieurs, " said she, skilfully munching thesound spots out of the fruit and casting the rest on the ground. 

"One would have thought madame was about to spread a banquet, " shemuttered. 

She sauntered away, stopping to break the crust with a piece of loosepaving, with a sharp eye out for other windfalls. 

A young girl saw her from a garden, and shyly peeped through the highwrought-iron fence at the little savage. 

Though the latter never stopped a second in her process ofmastication, she eyed the other quite as curiously, --something as shemight have regarded a strange but beautiful animal through the bars ofits cage. 

In experience and practical knowledge of life the respective ages ofthese two might have been reversed; the child of the street beensixteen instead of twelve. 

Undersized, thin, sallow, and sunburned, --bareheaded, barefooted, dirty, and ragged, --she formed a striking contrast to therosy-cheeked, plump, full-lipped, and well-dressed young woman within. 

The extraordinary sound of crunching very naturally attracted thefirst attention of the elder. 

"What in the world is that which you are eating, child?" she asked. 

"Bread, ma'm'selle. "

"Bread! Why, it's covered with dirt!"

"Yes, ma'm'selle. "

Redoubled exertion of the sound young teeth. 

"Why do you eat that?"

"Hungry, ma'm'selle. "

"Heavens!"

Continuous crunching, while the child knocks the remaining crustagainst the wall to get the sand out of it, the dirt of thepaving-stone. 

"What's your name?"

"Fouchette. "

"Fouchette? Fouchette what?"

"Nothing, ma'm'selle, --just Fouchette. "

"Where do you live, Fouchette? Do throw that dirty bread away, child!"

"Say, now, ma'm'selle, do you see anything green in my eye?"

The young woman seriously inspects the blue eye that is rolled up ather and shakes her head. 

"N-no; I don't see anything. "

"Very well, " said Fouchette, continuing her attack on the slowlydissolving crust. 

"Throw it away, I tell you!--I'll run and get you some, --that's a goodchild!"

Fouchette stopped suddenly and remained immobile, regarding herinterlocutor sharply. 

"Truly?" she asked. 

"Certainly. "

The child looked at what remained of the crust, hesitated, sighed, then dropped it on the ground. The young woman hastily re-entered thehouse and presently reappeared with a huge sandwich with meat on aliberal scale. 

"Oh, how good you are, ma'm'selle!" cried Fouchette. 

Her blue eyes sparkled with pleasure, --her young mouth watered as thesandwich was passed between the railing. 

"What is that, --why, there is blood on your neck, Fouchette!"

The child felt her neck with her hand and brought it away. 

"So it is, " said she, sinking her teeth into the sandwich. 

"Here, --come closer, --turn this way. It's running down now. How didyou hurt yourself?"

"Dame! It is nothing, ma'm'selle. "

"Nothing! You are just black and blue!"

"Mostly black, " said Fouchette. The world looked ever so muchbrighter. 

"You've been fighting, " suggested the young woman, tentatively. 

"No, ma'm'selle. "

"Then somebody struck you. "

"Quite right, ma'm'selle. "

This was delivered with such an air of nonchalance that the young ladysmiled. 

"You speak as if it were a common occurrence, " she observed. 

"It is, " said Fouchette, with a desperate swallow, --"Podvin. "

"Po-Podvin?"

"Yes, ma'm'selle. "

"Person you live with?"

Fouchette nodded, --she had her mouth full. 

"They beat you?"

"Most every day. "

"Why?"

"Er--exercise, mostly, I think. "

The half-sly, half-humorous squint of the left blue eye set thesympathetic young woman laughing in spite of herself. The remarkableprecocity of these petites misérables of the slums was new to her. 

"But you had father and mother----"

"I don't know, ma'm'selle, --at least they never showed up. "

"But, my child, you must have started----"

"I started in a rag-heap, ma'm'selle. There's where the Podvin foundme. "

"In a rag-heap!"

"Yes, ma'm'selle, --so they say. "

"But don't you remember anything at all before that?"

"Precious little. Only this: that I came a long ways off, walking, andriding in market carts, and walking some more, --and then the Podvinfound me, --near here, --and here I am. That's all. "

"What does Podvin do for a living?"

"Drinks. "

"Ah! And madame?"

"Hammers me. "

"And you?"

"Rags. "

"Now, Fouchette, which is 'the' Podvin?"

"Madame, of course!"

The young woman laughed merrily, and Fouchette gave forth a singular, low, unmusical tinkle. She was astonished that the young lady shouldput such a question, then amused as she thought of Mother Podvinplaying second to anybody. 

"What a lively little girl you are, Fouchette!" said her questioner, pleasantly. 

"It's the fleas, ma'm'selle. "

"W-wh-what?"

"I sleep with Tartar. "

"Who's Tartar, and what----"

"He's the dog, ma'm'selle. "

"Heavens!"

"Oh, he's the best of the family, ma'm'selle, very sure!" protestedFouchette, naïvely. 

"No doubt of it, poor child!"

"Only for him I'd freeze in winter; and sometimes he divides hisdinner with me--as well as his fleas--when he is not too hungry, youknow. This amuses the Podvin so that sometimes, when we have company, she will not give me any dinner, so I'll have to beg of Tartar. And wehave lots of fun, and I dance----"

"You dance after that? Why----"

"Oh, I love to dance, ma'm'selle. I can----"

Fouchette elevated her dirty little bare foot against the railingabove her head by way of illustration; while, half shocked, halflaughing, the other hastily exclaimed, --

"Là, là, là! Put it down, Fouchette! Put it down!"

A restless glance up and down the road and back towards the houseseemed to relieve the young woman materially; she laughed now withdelightful abandon. 

"So Tartar and you are good friends in spite of the--the----"

"The fleas, --yes, ma'm'selle. He loves me and me alone. Nobody darescome near him when we sleep--or eat, --and I love him dearly. Did youever love anybody, ma'm'selle?"

This artless question appeared to take the young woman by surprise;for she grew confused and quite red, and finally told little Fouchetteto "run along, now, and don't be silly. "

"Not with fleas, --oh, no; I didn't mean that!" cried the child, conscious of having made a faux pas, but not clear. 

But the young woman was already flying through the flower-garden, andquickly disappeared around the corner of the house without oncelooking back. 

Fouchette then let go of her breath and heaved a deep sigh as sheturned away. 

It was the only occasion within her childish recollection when one ofher own sex had spoken to her in kindness. Now and then she haddreamed of such a thing as having occurred in the long ago, --in someother world, perhaps, --this was real, tangible, perceptible to the eyeand ear. 

 "Sweet words Are like the voices of returning birds, Filling the soul with summer. "

For the moment the starved soul of the child was filled with summersoftness, as she slowly returned along the route she had recentlycome, thinking of the beautiful young lady and the sensuous odor ofthe flowers which had penetrated to the innermost recesses of herbeing. 

As she neared the barriers, however, and was gradually recalled to theharsh realities of her daily environment, these fleeting dreams haddisappeared with the rest, leaving the old, fixed feelings ofhopelessness and sullen combativeness. With this revival came the painfrom the still recent blows of the morning, temporarily forgotten. 

The barriers at Paris have long been the popular haunts of poverty andcrime, --though their moral conditions have been greatly modified bythe multitude of tramways that afford the poor of Paris more extendedoutings. The barriers run along the line of fortifications and formthe "octroi, " or tax limit of the city. These big iron gates of thebarriers intercept every road entering Paris and are manned by customsofficials, who inspect all incoming vehicles and packages for dutiablegoods. 

Within the barriers is Paris, --beyond is the rest of the world. Insideare the police agents, --outside are the gendarmes. 

Cheap shows, gypsy camps, merry-go-rounds, and all sorts of gameshover about the barriers, where no special tax is exacted and wherethe regulations with reference to public order are somewhat lax. Theyattract noisy and unruly crowds on Sundays and holidays. A oncepopular song ran:

 "Pour rigoler montons, Montons à la barrière. "

Which means, that to have a good time let us go up to the barrier. 

These resorts are infested by the human vermin that prey on theignorant, --thieves, pickpockets, robbers, and cutthroats of everydescription. This very wood of Vincennes near at hand, now the gloryof picnickers, was for centuries the home and stronghold of the robberand professional assassin. And it is a rash man at this day who wouldvoluntarily risk his purse and life by being found alone in theneighborhood after nightfall. 

Fouchette's territory lay chiefly in the streets and suburbs ofCharenton. To cover it she was compelled to get out before daylight. If she had good luck and brought in anything valuable she got anextra allowance of soup, sometimes with a scrap of meat, to beinvariably divided between her and Tartar, or a small glass of redwine; if her find was poor her fare was reduced, and instead of foodshe often received blows. 

These blows, however, were never administered in the sight of the dog, Tartar, --only once, when the savage animal resented this treatment ofhis side partner by burying his teeth in Mother Podvin's arm. 

Little Fouchette remembered this friendly intervention by bringinghome any choice bits of meat found in the house garbage during hermorning tour. Mother Podvin remembered it by thereafter thumpingFouchette out of sight of her canine friend and protector. Theinfuriated woman would have slaughtered the offending spaniel on thespot, only Tartar was of infinite service to her husband in hisbusiness. She dared not, so she took it out on Fouchette. 

Monsieur Podvin's business was not confined wholly to drinking, thoughit was perhaps natural that Fouchette should have reached thatconclusion, since she had seen him in no other occupation. MonsieurPodvin, like many others of the mysterious inhabitants of thebarriers, worked nights. Not regularly, but as occasion invited him ornecessity drove him. On such occasions Tartar was brought forth fromthe cellar, where he reposed peacefully by the side of his littleprotégée, and accompanied his master. As Tartar was held in strictconfinement during the day, he was invariably delighted when the callof duty gave him this outing. And as he returned at all sorts of hoursin the early morning, his frail partner and bedfellow never felt thatit was necessary to sit up for him. Nevertheless, Fouchette was quitenervous, and sometimes sleepless, down there among the wine-bottles inthe dark, on her pallet of straw, when she awoke to find her hairyprotector missing; though, usually, she knew of his absence only byhis return, when he licked her face affectionately before curling downclosely as possible by her side. 

Now, Monsieur Podvin's business, ostensibly, was that of keeping a lowcabaret labelled "Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. " It might have been moreappropriately called a rendezvous for thieves, though this seemsrather hypercritical when one knows the cabbies of the barriers. Butthe cabaret was really run by Madame Podvin, which robs monsieur ofthe moral responsibilities. 

As a matter of fact, Monsieur Podvin was a mighty hunter, like Nimrodand Philippe Augustus, and other distinguished predecessors. His fieldof operations was the wood of Vincennes, where Philippe was wont tofollow the chase some hundreds of years ago, and wherein a long lineof royal chasseurs have subsequently amused themselves. 

With the simple statement that they were all hunters and robbers, fromAugustus to Podvin, inclusive, the resemblance ends; for the noblesand their followers followed the stag and wild boar, whereas MonsieurPodvin was a hunter of men. 

At first blush the latter would appear to be higher game and a moredangerous amusement. Not at all. For the men thus run down by MonsieurPodvin and his faithful dog, Tartar, were little above the beasts fromself-indulgence at any time, and were wholly devoid of even thelowest animal instincts when captured. They were the victims of theirown bestiality before they became the victims of Podvin. 

Every gala-day in the popular wood of Vincennes left a certain amountof human flotsam and jetsam lying around under the trees and in thedark shadows, helpless from a combination of wood alcohol and watertreated with coloring matter and called "wine. " It was MonsieurPodvin's business to hunt these unfortunates up and to relieve them ofany valuables of which they might be possessed, and which they had nouse for for the time being. It was quite as inspiriting and ennoblingas going over a battlefield and robbing the dead, and about as safefor the operators. The intelligence of Tartar and his indefatigableindustry lent an additional zest to the hunt and made it at once easyand remunerative. Tartar pointed and flushed the prey; all his masterhad to do was to go through the victims, who were usually too helplessto object. If, as was sometimes the case, one so far forgot himself asto do so, the sight of a gleaming knife-blade generally reconciled thevictim to the peaceful surrender of his property. On special occasionsMonsieur Podvin was assisted by a patron of the Rendez-Vous pourCochers; but he usually worked alone, being of a covetous nature andunwilling to share profits. When accompanied, it was with theunderstanding that the booty was to be divided into equal shares, Tartar counting as an individual and coming in on equal terms, and oneshare on account of Fouchette, --all of which went to Monsieur Podvin. 

For, without any knowledge or reward, Fouchette was made to do themost dangerous part of the business, --which lay in the disposal of theproceeds of the chase. It was innocently carried by her in herrag-basket to the receiver inside the barriers. 

Where adults would have been suspected and probably searched, first bythe customs officers and then by the police, Fouchette wentunchallenged. Her towering basket, under which bent the frail littlehalf-starved figure, marked her scarcely more conspicuously than herready wit and cheerful though coarse retorts to would-be sympathizers. Her load was delivered to those who examined its contents out of hersight. The price went back by another carrier, --a patron of theRendez-Vous pour Cochers. "La petite chiffonnière" was widely known inthe small world of the Porte de Charenton. 

As for Fouchette, --well, she has already, in her laconic way, givenabout all that she knew of her earlier history. Picked up in arag-heap by a chiffonnière of the barrier, she had succeeded to abrutal life that had in five years reduced her to the physical levelof the spaniel, Tartar. In fact, her position was really inferior, since the dog was never beaten and had always plenty to eat. 

Instead of killing her, as would have been the fate of one of thelower animals subjected to the same treatment, all this had seemed totoughen the child, --to render her physically and morally as hard asnails. 

It would be too much or too little--according to the point of view--toassume that Fouchette was patient under her yoke and that she wentabout her tasks with the docility of a well-trained animal. On thecontrary, she not only rebelled in spirit, but she often resistedwith all her feeble strength, fighting, feet, hands, and teeth, withfeline ferocity. Having been brought to the level of brutes, she hadbecome a brute in instinct, in her sensibility to kindness, herpig-headedness, resentment of injury, and dogged resistance. 

On her ninth birthday--which, however, was unknown--Monsieur Podvin, over his fourth bottle, offered to put her up against the dog of hisconvive of the moment, so much was he impressed with Fouchette'sfighting talent. Fouchette, who was serving the wine, was notunmindful of the implied compliment. She glanced at the animal andthen at its owner with a bitter smile that in her catlike jaws seemedalmost a snarl, --

"I'd much rather fight le Cochon, " said she. 

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the man, who was a dirty ruffian of two hundredpounds, mostly alcohol, and who enjoyed the fitting sobriquet of "leCochon, " from his appearance and characteristic grunt. 

"Voilà!" cried Monsieur Podvin; "that's Fouchette!"

"Pardieu! but what a little scorcher!" exclaimed the ruffian, ratheradmiringly. 

"The dog is honest and decent, " said the child, turning her steelyblue eyes on the man. 

"Fouchette!"

The peremptory voice was that of "the" Podvin behind the zinc. Suchplain talk--any talk at all about "honesty" and "decency"--at theRendez-Vous pour Cochers was interdicted. And had the girl noted thelook which followed her retreating figure she might have gone abroadthe next morning with less confidence. 

From that time on these two, ruffian and child, snapped at each otherwhenever they came in contact, --which, as the man was an habitué ofthe place, and occasional assistant of Monsieur Podvin in his businessof scouring the wood of Vincennes for booty, was pretty nearly everyday. For in addition to her labors as a rag-picker Fouchette wascompelled to wait upon customers in the wine-shop and run errands andperform pretty much all the work of housekeeping for the Podvins. Herforaging expeditions merely filled in the time when customers were notexpected. 

Strange as it may appear, Fouchette liked this extra hour or so abroadbetter than any other duty of the day, --it was freedom andindependence. With her high pannier strapped to her slender back andiron hook in hand she roamed about the streets of Charenton, sometimescrossing over through ancient Conflans and coming home by the Marneand Seine. There were only footpads, low-browed rascals, thieves, andbelated robbers about at this hour, before the trams began to maketheir trips to and from Paris, but these people never disturbed thepetite chiffonnière, save to sometimes exchange the foul witticisms ofthe slums, in which contests the ready tongue and extensive vocabularyof little Fouchette invariably left a track of good-humor. They knewshe hadn't a sou, and, besides, was one of their class. 

Fouchette was a shining example of what environment can make of anyhuman being, taken sufficiently young and having no vacation. 

Up to this particular morning Fouchette had accepted her position inlife philosophically as a necessary condition, and with no moreconsideration of the high and mighty of this world than the high andmighty had for her. Slowly and by insensible degrees, since she wastoo young to mark the phenomena in any case, she had been forged andhammered into a living piece of moral obliquity, --and yet the veryfirst contact with an innocent mind and kindly sympathy awoke in herchildish breast a subtle consciousness that something was wrong. 

She fell asleep later, worn out with toil and sore from bruises, herthin arm flung across Tartar's neck, to dream of a plump young face, apair of big, dark, soulful eyes that searched and found her heart. Thenoise of the revelling robbers above her faded into one sweet, deep, mellow voice that was music to her ears. And the powerful odors thatimpregnated the atmosphere of the cellar and rendered it foul tosuffocation--dampness and dog and dregs of wine, and garlic anddecaying vegetables--became the languorous breath of June flowers. 

Ah! the beautiful young lady! The beautiful flowers!

Their perfume seemed to choke her, like the deadly tuberoses piledupon a coffin. 

She tried to cry out, but her mouth was crowded full of something, andshe awoke to find herself in the brutal hands of some one in thedarkness. She kicked and scratched and struggled in vain, to bequickly vanquished by a brutish blow. 

Tartar! Tartar!

Oh, if Tartar were only there!

When she came to herself she was conscious of being carried in her ownbasket on the back of one who stepped heavily and somewhat uncertainlyalong the road. 

She was doubled up like a half-shut jack-knife, her feet and headuppermost, and had great difficulty in breathing by reason of hercramped position and the ill-smelling rags with which she was covered. Besides which, she felt sick from the cruel blow in her stomach. 

Yet her senses were keenly alert. 

She was well aware who had her; for the man gave out hischaracteristic grunt with every misstep, and there was no one else inthe world likely to do her serious physical injury. 

She knew that it was still dark, both from the way the man walked andfrom the cool dampness of the atmosphere with which she was familiar. 

Yes, it was le Cochon. 

She knew him for an escaped convict, for a murderer as well as arobber, and that he would slit a throat for twenty sous if there werefair promise of immunity. 

She felt instinctively that she was lost. 

All at once the man stopped, went on, paused again. 

Then she heard other footsteps. They grew louder. They were evidentlyapproaching. They were the heavy, hob-nailed shoes of some laborer onhis way to work. 

Her heart stood still for a few moments as she listened, then beatwildly with renewed hope. 

If she could only cry out; but the rag that filled her mouth madegiving the alarm impossible. 

Finally, after some hesitation, her abductor moved on as if to meetthe coming footsteps, slowly, and leaning far over now and then, inapparent attempt to counterfeit the occupation of a rag-picker. And atsuch moments the child felt that she was standing on the back of herneck. 

The heavy tramp of the stranger grew nearer--was upon them. 

"Bonjour!" called out a cheerful, manly voice. 

"Bonjour, monsieur!" replied le Cochon, humbly. 

"You are abroad early this morning. "

"It is necessary, if an honest chiffonnier would live these times. "

"Possible. Good luck to you. "

"Thanks, monsieur. "

The steps had never paused and were quickly growing fainter down theroad, while the young heart within the basket grew fainter and fainterwith the fading sounds. 

This temporary hope thus crushed was more cruel than her formerdespair. 

Her bearer uttered a low volley of horrible imprecations directedtowards the unknown. 

He stopped suddenly, and, unstrapping the basket from his shoulders, placed it on the ground. 

Fouchette smelled the morning vapors of the river; discerned now thedistinct gurgle of the flood. 

As the robber took the rags from the basket and pulled her roughlyforth, the full significance of her perilous situation rushed uponher. She trembled so that she could scarcely stand, --would havetoppled over the edge of the quai but for the strong arm of le Cochon, who restrained her. 

"Not yet, petite, " said he. 

And he began to strap the basket upon her young shoulders. 

"Pardieu! we must regard conventionalities, " he added, with devilishmalignity. 

It was early gray of morning, and a mist hung over the dark waters ofthe Seine. No attempt had been made to obstruct her vision, which, long habituated to the hour, took in the road, the stone quai, theboats moored not far away, the human monster at her side, all at asingle sweeping glance. 

Her feet and arms were bound, the gag was still in her mouth, --therewas no escape, no succor. 

There was the river; there was le Cochon. 

Nothing more. 

What more, indeed, was necessary to complete the picture?

Death. 

Nothing was easier. No conclusion more mathematically certain. 

With his knife between his teeth the assassin hastily adjusted thestraps under her arms. It was but the work of half a minute from thetime he had stopped, though to the terror-stricken child it seemed anage of torment. 

The rags were packed tightly down in the bottom of the basket. 

"It'll do for a sinker, " said the man. 

Then he cut the thongs that held her arms, severed the ligament thatbound her feet, and with one hand removed the cloth from her mouth, while with the other he suddenly pushed his victim over the edge ofthe stone quai. 

"Voilà!"

Short as was the opportunity, Fouchette gave one terrified shriek asshe went over the brink, --a shriek that pierced the river mists andreverberated from the stone walls and parapets and went ringing up anddown the surface of the swiftly swirling stream. 

Again, as she reappeared, battling with the murky waters withdesperate stroke and splash, her childish voice rose, --

"Tartar! Tartar!"

And yet again, choking with the flood, --

"Tar--Tar--tar!"

It was the last thought, --the last appeal, --this despairing cry forthe only one on earth she loved, --the only being on earth who lovedher. 

CHAPTER II

The piercing cry of Fouchette seemed yet to linger in the mistymorning air, thrilling the distant ear, vibrating upon the unstrungnerves of the outcasts beneath the far-away bridges, borne upon thesurface of the waters, when it was answered out of the darkness by asharp, shrill note of sympathy. 

Those who have heard the wild hyena in his native fastnessesresponding to the appeal of its imperilled young might have understoodthis half-human, half-savage cry of the roused animal. 

And almost simultaneously came the swift rush of feet that seemed toclaw the granite into flying electric sparks. 

The repulsive face of the convict murderer turned pale at the sound, and at the sight of the glowing eye-balls his ugly teeth clatteredagainst each other. Nevertheless, the instinct of self-preservationmade him crouch low, deadly knife in hand, to receive the expectedattack. 

At the sight of le Cochon the dog emitted a howl of wrath. With themarvellous judgment, however, of the trained animal that will not beturned from the trail of a deer by the scent of skunk, this sightscarcely checked his plunge. 

Tartar's divination was unerring. He wasted no effort in battling withthe current or paddling around in a circle, but turned at once andswam rapidly with the stream. He spent no breath in uselessvociferation. All his canine strength was put forth to an end. Andthese instincts were quickly rewarded by the sight of a strangeobject floating ahead of him, --something a little higher, than thewater. 

The fiend who had packed the old rags into the bottom of the pannierwith the double motive of indicating an accident and of carrying thechild under beneath its weight had overdone the trick. For the rags, once soaked, proved so much heavier than the frail body that it turnedturtle and threw the child face upward and partially above thesurface. The load instead of sinking buoyed her up, and, beingstrapped securely to it, she could not fall off. Whereas if she hadsimply been thrown into the river without these precautions, she wouldhave gone to the bottom. 

With a succession of low whines now that were almost human sobs, theexcited spaniel quickened his stroke, if, indeed, such a thing werepossible, and redoubled his energies. He saw that it was the body ofhis beloved mate. 

But when he reached the floating object and seized it with his teethit was to find that he was powerless to drag it ashore. In vain hestruggled and splashed and tugged at it. The load was too much forhim. Almost frantic from disappointment, he soon became exhausted. Heseemed to realize that he would not only be unable to save his littlemistress, but was likely to perish with her. It was not long beforehis fight ceased. He hung on by his teeth now to keep from sinking. 

Thus the combination, waterlogged basket, unconscious girl, andexhausted dog, floated silently along, under the National Bridge, pastthe bridge of Tolbiac, and came opposite the great freight-yards ofthe Orleans Railway on the left and the greater Entrepôts de Bercy onthe right. 

The homeless of both sexes that swarm the shelter of the bridges ofthe Seine were just awakening to life and a renewed sense of misery. The thin fog had begun to lift. The sharper eyes of the dog discoveredthe proximity of human beings before the latter could see him, and helet go of his floater long enough to utter a few sharp yelps ofdistress. 

A tramp, wider awake or less benumbed by liquor than his fellows, heard the sounds from the river and called the attention ofcompanions. 

A dog in distress, --it was enough to rouse the sympathetic blood ofany true Parisian. The more active of the men ran vociferously alongthe bank, raising the watchmen of either shore. 

Numerous barges and tugs lay moored along the Quai de la Gare. Fromthese lights began to show. Men sprang up as if by magic. Those on oneside of the river shouted to those on the other side to find out whatwas the matter, and the other side shouted back that they didn'tknow, --but it was somebody or something in the river. As there isalways "somebody" in the river, the idea did not attract so muchattention as the possibility that it was "something. "

When it was ascertained that it was a dog--which followed uponadditional pathetic appeals from the water--there was wild excitementall along the line. Men tumbled over barrels and boxes, and ran plumpup against walls, and fell into pits, and even into the river itself, in their anxiety to keep pace with the sounds from the fog. 

Others began hastily to get out boats, and ran about with lanterns andoars and ends of rope and other life-saving paraphernalia. These boatsput off simultaneously from either side, and contained police agents, bargemen, roustabouts, watchmen, watermen, and bums. As theinhabitants of the Long Island shore at the cry of "A whale!" man theboats and race to get in the first harpoon, so these rivermen of theSeine now pulled for a drowning dog. 

The conflicting sounds of human voices, the grating of boats againstthe stones, the rattle of chains, the splash of oars, were plainlyheard and as plainly understood by the intelligent animal nowstruggling with death. Through his set jaws, which still clung to thechild's clothing, or, rather, through his nose, there came occasionalwhines of distress that were almost heart-rending in their intensity. 

These last faint appeals for help directed the rescuers. 

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed a waterman, nearing the spot and rowingalongside. 

"It's a child!" screamed another. 

"No, it's a dog, " said a third. 

The light was still uncertain and objects confusing. 

"It's dog and child----"

"It's dead!"

"Not yet, monsieur. "

"I mean the child. "

"Dead?"

"No; the dog has held its face above water. "

"The dog, --quick! he's sinking!"

"Here!"

"A rope!"

"There!"

"No, no! Catch him by the neck!"

"Save the child first!"

"I've got him!"

"And I've got her!"

"Hang on to the dog! Pull him into the boat, stupid!"

"Why, she's strapped down to something!"

"What is this, anyhow?"

"Pull the dog loose, man!--he'll drown her yet!"

"There!"

"Your knife, Pierre!"

"Hold!"

This was from the river policeman, who held up his bull's-eye lanternso that it threw a yellow glare on the white upturned face. 

"She's dead, poor little thing!"

"We shall bring in the body just as it is, " said the official. 

"But----"

"That's the law!"

"Tonnerre! Is it the law to let a child drown in one's sight?"

"Oh, she's dead enough, I'm afraid. "

"I don't know about that. "

"Bring it in just as it is, " repeated the official, adjusting a ropeto the mysterious thing beneath the body. 

"Sacré bleu! And if she's alive?"

"Poor doggie! He's about done for too. "

And so it really seemed, for Tartar lay in the bottom of the boat, still breathing, but in convulsive gasps. In his teeth remained aportion of the child's clothing, torn away with him. He had hung tohis charge to the last. His jaws had never relaxed. 

In the mean time the whole fleet with its spoils had been floatingsteadily down with the powerful current. Amidst the wrangle ofcontending voices, and with some angry altercation, the police boatand its accompanying consorts were towing the yet unknown object andits silent burden towards the shore. 

This was not an easy job, since the river becomes more narrow as itthreads the city, and the current proportionately stronger, and theundertow caught at the low-hanging mass as if determined to bear itdown to the morgue just below. They had been carried under the Pont deBercy and were drawing near the Quai d'Austerlitz. Finally they gotashore at the Gare d'Orléans. 

"Parbleu! it's a little chiffonnière!"

"Truly!"

"She has evidently fallen into the river with her basket on her back. "

They had now, in the rapidly growing daylight, discovered thecharacter of the object that held her in its embrace. In fact, whenhalf a dozen stout fellows had attempted to lift the whole thing outof the water the rags had dropped out unseen and were borne away bythe current, leaving the light empty pannier and the body of the childin their hands. And the men marvelled at the resistance they hadencountered. 

A messenger had been at once despatched for medical assistance. Thegreat hospital of Salpêtrière was near at hand. 

"May as well take her to the morgue, " muttered one. 

"Soon enough, --soon enough, " replied the river policeman. "Follow thecustom. "

Notwithstanding the general opinion that it was too late, a roughboatman had torn off a section of his flannel shirt and was chafingthe cold little hands, while another rubbed the legs and a third triedto restore respiration. These people were familiar with cases ofdrowning, and knew the best and simplest immediate first aid by heart. 

To their very great surprise a few minutes sufficed to show that thechild was still alive. By the time the doctor arrived she gave decidedsigns of returning animation. Under the influence of his restorativesshe opened her eyes. 

"Tartar!" she gasped. 

"What's that, little one?" inquired the doctor, bending low over her. She still lay on the stone quai, a laborer's coat beneath her extendedfigure. 

"Tar--Tartar, " she repeated, again closing her eyes. "Oh, mon Dieu! Iremember now. That wretch!--it could not have been!"

"Maybe it's her dog, " suggested a man. 

"Yes, --Tartar----"

"There, my child, --don't! Is it the dog?"

"Yes, --tell me----"

"Oh, he's all right. --Say!"

He hailed the group gathered about the other victim of the river. 

"How's the dog?"

"All right, Monsieur le Docteur!"

Fouchette heard and brightened perceptibly. The doctor increased theeffect by observing that the dog was coming around all right. 

"But he's had a pretty close call. "

"So it was Tartar, after all, " whispered Fouchette. "Dear Tartar!"

"A brave dog, Tartar, --stuck to you to the last, " put in thepoliceman. 

"Truly!"

Half a dozen men cried at once, "Vive Tartar!" with the enthusiasm oftrue Frenchmen. 

And if a dog ever did deserve the encomiums that were showered uponhim Tartar certainly was that dog. 

As soon as Fouchette began to revive, a stalwart bargewoman, awakenedin her little cubby by the cries of the men in the vicinity, and whohad hastily turned out to see for herself, had disappeared for amoment in her floating home, and shortly afterwards returned with somesubstantial clothing borrowed from her family wardrobe. 

"How thin the child is!" she remarked, as she substituted the dryclothing on the spot. 

"Thin!" growled a bystander; "she had to be mighty thin to come downthe river on an empty basket!"

"You see, she must have fallen in with the basket on her back----"

"I was pushed in, " corrected Fouchette. 

"Pushed into the river?"

"What's that?"

"Who did it, child?"

"Impossible!"

"There is some devilish crime here. "

"It's a case for the police. "

This last observation came from the policeman as he brought out hisnote-book, while a buzz of indignation ran through the crowd. 

Fouchette heard these mutterings and saw the inquisitorial pencil ofthe official in uniform. He had shut off his light with a snap. 

At this moment Tartar, having heard the voice of his mistress, hadstruggled to his feet, and now dragged himself over to where she lay. The crowd separated for him. 

"Ah! Tartar!" exclaimed Fouchette, affectionately, raising her hand tohis head. 

With a whimper of joy the noble animal licked her hand, her face andneck, wagging his bedraggled tail with intense satisfaction, windingup this demonstration by lying down by her side as closely as he couldget, and giving a long breath, which in a human being would be calleda sigh. 

The act moved the coarse bargewoman to tears, while the men turnedaway to hide their emotion. 

The silence was profound, --the testimony of a sentiment too deep formere words. 

The police agent was the first to come to the practical point in thesituation. The violence phase of the case made him consequential. Itwould invite the attention of his superiors. It would get his name inthe daily journals. 

"What is your name, child?"

The intended victim of police interrogatory closed her eyes withoutanswering. 

"You were thrown into the river. It is necessary for us to know thename of the person who committed this outrage. If you do not know, itis our business to find out. The miscreant must be arrested andpunished. Where do you live?"

No answer. 

"Speak, my child! Speak up!"

She had reopened her eyes and now looked at him steadily, stonily, butwithout a word. He was nonplussed. 

As Fouchette began rapidly to recover her strength she also recoveredher self-possession, also the results of her training. Foremost amongthese were her suspicions of the police, whom she had come to believewere organized by society to restrain and harass the poor; that theinformer was the lowest grade of humanity. 

In addition to these precepts of the barriers, Fouchette was afraid. She knew the character of those whom she had left behind. She feltcertain that if she betrayed them to the police she would be put outof the way. 

Nor was this fear at all unreasonable. Without her recent terribleexperience she would have been fully aware of the danger that attendeda too loquacious tongue. The question of putting this one or that one"out of the way" had frequently been discussed openly and seriously atthe Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. A word from her now would send thepolice down on that resort. Just a little while ago she was nervousand unstrung, but, while she had at first formed the intention ofbringing le Cochon to book, the very first question brought her faceto face with the consequences. The second query increased herobstinacy. The peremptory command to speak out left her mute. Bysaying nothing she could compromise nobody. 

"Only a street waif, " suggested the doctor, --"probably has no home. "

Fouchette, who had now risen to a sitting posture, nodded vivaciously. 

"Then why didn't you say so?" growled the police agent. "Have you anyparents?"

"No. "

"Whom were you living with, and where?"

"Nowhere. "

"Now, again, --what is your name?"

Silence. 

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because it's none of your business, " snapped Fouchette. 

"We'll see about that before the Commissaire, " retorted the agent. "He'll take the sulk out of you. "

"Hold on, " put in the bargewoman; "don't be harsh with her, monsieur. She has been abused dreadfully. Her body is covered with bruises. "

"So much more reason we should find out who did it, --who has attemptedto murder the child into the bargain. "

"She has been cruelly beaten. "

Fouchette nodded. 

"I'll have to take you to the Commissariat, my child. "

"I don't care where you take me, --that is, if Tartar goes along. "

The dog regarded her inquiringly. 

"Certainly, " responded the agent, --"Tartar is a part of the case. Allons!"

He would have picked her up in his powerful arms, but she rebelledvigorously, protesting that she could walk. 

"Very well. Good! You're a plucky one. You're the right stuff. "

The little official party--the agent, Fouchette, Tartar, a watermancarrying the basket, the stout bargewoman bearing the child's wetclothing--took up the march, followed by several idlers in search ofsensation. 

Having arrived at the Commissariat, it was necessary to await the hourwhen it pleased Monsieur le Commissaire to put in an appearance. Inthe mean time Fouchette was disposed of on a bench within a railedspace, her bare feet dangling, momentarily growing physically betterand more mentally perplexed. 

What would they do with her?

She dared not return to the Podvins. She knew of no other place to go. She was desperately alone in the world. Only Tartar, who once morestretched himself at her feet, with his head in a position where hecould keep a half-open eye on his mistress. Tartar needed rest, andwas getting it. 

The police! Next to the murderer of the barrier she hated and fearedthe police. 

Would they send her to prison?

After all, she thought, one might as well have been drowned to afinish. It would have been an easy escape from this uncertainty andagony of mind. 

She began to feel hungry. Gradually the thoughts of what she should dofor something to eat, and where she would be able to get something forTartar, drove out all other thoughts. If they could only get awaynow, --at this hour something might be found in the streets. Shecalculated the chances of escape by a sudden dash for the door. Butthere were several police agents lounging in the anteroom, and herconductor sat at the little gate of the enclosure. So the scheme wasreluctantly dismissed. Anyhow, if they would let Tartar remain withher she didn't care much. 

During this time several successive attempts were made by the policeagents to get her to talk. She responded by "Yes" or "No" or a motionof the head to all questions not connected with her case. On thissubject she was persistently silent. 

An hour later the bargewoman, who had been in secret consultation withthe police agents, went out and got Fouchette a roll and some cheese, which she ate eagerly. This woman was a coarse, masculine-lookingcreature with hands as hard and rough as a fowl's foot, a distinctmoustache and tufts of hair cropping out here and there on her neckand chin, but her voice assumed a kindly tone. She led Fouchette tothe farther corner of the room. 

"I must go back to my boat now, chérie. Cheer up! And promise me onething, --don't try the river again. You were not born to be drowned, anyhow. If you really want to die you'll have to try something else. "

"But I don't want to die, " protested Fouchette. 

"And they send people to prison who attempt suicide, " continued thewoman. 

"But I didn't, madame. "

"The bodies spoil the water. There are so many of them floating by. I've seen hundreds of 'em in my time. "

"No, indeed; I would rather live. "

"That's right, --that's a dear! My barge is 'La Thérèse, '--named afterme. We are in the coal trade. I want you to come and see me, petite. You shall take a trip to Rouen. Yes, --would you like to----"

"Oh, very much, madame!" interrupted Fouchette, joyfully. 

"You shall. "

"And Tartar?"

"Shall go too. We'll have fine times, I promise you. You will find usat the Quai d'Austerlitz when in Paris. "

"Thank you, --so much! I've seen the big boats go by lots of times andwished I was on one--one with flowers and vines and a dog--Tartar. Andsometimes I've seen 'em in my sleep--yes. "

Fouchette at once lost herself in this prospect. It would be the mostdelightful thing in her life. 

"Yes, it is very nice, " continued the bargewoman. "Remember, chérie, --'La Thérèse. ' You can bring the clothes with you. Ask forme, --'Thérèse. ' My husband named the barge after me long ago. "

"It's a pretty name, " said the child. 

"You think so? A name is--what is your real name, petite?"

"I don't know, madame, " replied Fouchette, promptly and truthfully. 

"What! Don't know your own name? Impossible!"

The woman was vexed, and made no effort to conceal her vexation. To beoutwitted by a mere child was too much to bear with equanimity. Askindly disposed as she was by nature, she lost her temper at once atwhat she considered a stupid falsehood. 

"You're an obstinate little brute!" she exclaimed, in a passion, --astate of mind aggravated by the laughter of the police agents in theroom. 

"Yes, and a little liar, " she added. 

"M--mad--madame!" stammered the trembling child, whose bright visionsvanished in a twinkling. 

"I don't wonder they threw you in the river, --not a bit!"

Fouchette's lips were now set in mute rage. She was up in arms atonce. Her steely eyes shot fire. The honest bargewoman had almost wonher childish confidence. Another word or two of kindness and she wouldhave gained an easy victory. Now, however, everything was upset andthe fat was in the fire. 

Without a word Fouchette began to hurriedly divest herself of theclothing she wore and to throw the garments, piece by piece, on thefloor. 

So quickly was this accomplished that neither the astonished woman northe puzzled police agents could interfere before the child stood thereperfectly nude in the midst of them. Her frame, which was little morethan a living skeleton covered with marks of violence, fairly quiveredwith anger. She choked so that she could not speak. In another minuteshe had resumed her wet rags. 

"Voilà!" she finally cried, pointing to the discarded garments. "Atleast you can never say that I asked for them or didn't return them!"

"Mon Dieu!" The woman was overwhelmed, --breathless. 

To be misunderstood is often the bitterest thing to bear in this life. Madame Thérèse and little Fouchette were suffering simultaneously fromthis evil. 

"Take 'em away!"

"But listen, child! I----"

"Take 'em away!" she screamed. 

Tartar rose with an ominous growl and looked from his mistress to thewoman. 

"We don't need 'em, do we, Tartar? No! Let them take their gall andhoney with 'em. Yes! They make us tired. Yes!"

To all of these observations--somewhat heavily weighted with barrierbillingsgate--Tartar showed his approval by wagging his tail knowinglyand by covering the small face bent down to him with canine kisses. 

"Better come away, madame, " said an agent, in a low voice, to thestupefied woman thus assailed. He laughed at her discomfiture. "It iswaste kindness and waste time. You can't do anything with that sort ofriffraff. It's only a stray cat fed to scratch you. They're a badlot. "

The "bad lot" had overheard this police philosophy, and it confirmedher pre-existing opinion of the police. 

Monsieur le Commissaire was a grave and burly gentleman of middlelife, with iron-gray hair and moustache, and eyes that seemed to readtheir object through and through. He pulled this moustachethoughtfully as he listened to the report of the river police agent, all the time keeping the eyes upon the diminutive but defiant childbefore him. When he had learned everything, --including the scene inthe station, --he said, abruptly, --

"Come in here, my child. Don't be afraid, --nobody's going to hurt you. Yes, bring the dog. Brave dog! Splendid fellow! Come! I'd like to ownthat dog, now, --I would, indeed!" he observed, as he closed the doorof his private office; "but I suppose you wouldn't part with him forthe world now, would you?"

"N-no. But he isn't mine, monsieur, " she replied, regretfully. 

"No? What a pity! Then perhaps I could buy him, eh?"

"I--I don't know. Monsieur Podvin----"

She stopped suddenly. But the magistrate was looking abstractedly overher head and did not appear to notice her slip of the tongue. He wasthinking. It gave little Fouchette time to recover. 

He was something like the enthusiastic physician who sees in hispatient only "a case, "--something devoid of personality. He recognizedin this waif a condition of society to be treated. In his mind she wasa wholly irresponsible creature. Not the whole case in question, --oh, no; but a part of the case. What she had been, was now, or would bewere questions that did not enter into the consideration. Nothing butthe case. 

Instead of putting the child through a course of questions, --what sheanticipated and had steeled herself against, --he merely talked to heron what appeared to be topics foreign to the subject immediately inhand. 

"You must be taken care of in some way, " he declared. "Yes, --a childlike you should not be left in the streets of Paris to beg orstarve, --and it's against the law to beg----"

"But I never begged, monsieur, " interrupted the child, --"never!"

"Of course not, --of course not! No; you are too proud to beg. That'sright. But you couldn't make a living picking rags, and the lawdoesn't permit a child to pick rags in the streets of Paris. "

"I never did, monsieur, never!"

"Of course not, --you would be arrested. But outside the barriers thework is not lucrative. Charenton, for instance, is not as prolific ofrags as it is of rascals. "

At the mention of Charenton Fouchette started visibly; but herinterlocutor did not seem to notice it. 

"No; it does not even give as brave a child as you enough to eat, --notif you work ever so hard, --let alone to provide comfortably forTar--for Tartar. Eh, my brave spaniel? We must get Tartar somebreakfast. Has Tartar had any breakfast?"

"No, monsieur, --oh, no! And he is so hungry!"

She was all eagerness and softness when it came to her faithfulcompanion. Tartar began to take a lively interest in the conversationof which he knew himself the subject. 

"Exactly, " said the Commissaire, suddenly getting up. He had reachedhis conclusion. "Now, remain here a few minutes, little one, while Isee about it. "

He disappeared into the outer office and remained closeted in a smallcabinet with a telephone. Then, calling one of his men in plainclothes aside, he gave some instructions in a rapid manner. 

When he re-entered the private office he knew that a rascal namedPodvin kept a disreputable cabaret near the Porte de Charenton, andthat a small, thin child called Fouchette lived with the Podvins, whoalso kept a dog, liver-colored, with dark-brown splotches, namedTartar, but that the child was not yet missed, probably owing to thefact that it was her customary hour in the streets of Charenton. Inthe same time he had notified the Préfecture that a murderous attempthad been made on a child, probably by some one of the gang thatinfested the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers, and had been directed toco-operate with two skilled Central men in an investigation. 

"All right, petite, " said the Commissaire, rubbing his hands andassuming his most oily tone. "First we are going to have some dryclothes and some shoes and stockings and----"

"I only--I never wore shoes and stockings, " interrupted Fouchette, somewhat embarrassed by this flood of finery. "I don't need 'em, monsieur. It is only Tartar's----"

"Oh, we'll attend to Tartar also, --don't be afraid. "

"Monsieur is very kind. "

"It is nothing. Come along, now. You're going to ride in a nicecarriage, too, --for the crowd might follow you in the street, youknow, --and I'll send a man with you to take good care of you. "

"But Tartar----"

"You can take him in the carriage with you if you wish, --yes, it isbetter, perhaps. He might get run over or lost. "

"Oh!"

And thus Fouchette rode in state, and in wet rags at the same time, down past the great Jardin des Plantes, the Halle aux Vins, and alongthe Boulevard St. Germain to Rue St. Jacques, where they turned downacross the Petit Pont and stopped in the court-yard of an immensebuilding across the plaza from Notre Dame. Tartar was somewhat uneasy, as well as his little mistress, at this novelty of locomotion, but aslong as they were together it seemed to be all right. So they lookedout of the carriage windows at the sights that were as strange totheir eyes as if they had never before been in the city of Paris. Meanwhile, to divert the child, the man at her side had gayly pointedout the objects of interest. 

"Ah! and there is grand old Notre Dame, " said he. 

"What's that?"

"Notre Dame. "

"It's a big house. "

"Yes; but you've seen it, of course. "

"Never. "

"What!" he exclaimed, in astonishment; "you, a little Parisienne, andnever saw Notre Dame?"

"You--you, monsieur, you have then seen everything in Paris?"

There was a vein of cold irony in the small voice. 

"Er--w-well, not quite. Not quite, perhaps, " he smilingly answered. 

"No, nor I, " she said. 

"But Notre Dame----"

"What's Notre Dame to me? Nothing!"

A slight gesture of impatience. 

"But----"

"What's it for?"

"Why, it's a church, petite. "

"A church! And what's that to me?"

"Well, truly, I don't know, child. Nothing, I suppose. "

"Nothing!"

She snapped her fingers contemptuously. 

"Here is the Préfecture. "

It was the Préfecture de Police and not Notre Dame that had to do withlittle Fouchette and her kind. She knew what the Préfecture was, though she now saw it for the first time. And she shivered in her wetrags as the carriage turned into the great court-yard surrounded bythe immense stone quadrangle that fronts upon the quai. 

A troop of the Garde de Paris was drilling at the upper end of thecourt. Sentinels with gay uniforms and fixed bayonets solemnly paradedat the three gate-ways. 

"Come, petite, " said the man, flinging open the carriage doors andlifting the child in his arms to the ground. The dog leaped out afterher and looked uneasily up and down. 

Half an hour later when Fouchette emerged with her conductor she hadundergone a transformation that would have rendered herunrecognizable in Charenton. She had not only been washed and combedand rubbed down, but had been arrayed in a frock of grayish material, a chip hat with flowers in it, and shoes and stockings. She was soexcited over the grandeur of her personal appearance that she hadcompletely lost her bearings. It is true the hat was too old for achild of her years, and the coarse new costume was several sizes toolarge for her bony little frame, and the shoes were very embarrassing, but to Fouchette they seemed the outfit of a "real lady. "

She had entered the Préfecture sullenly, desperately, half expectingto be sent to a lonely cell and perhaps loaded with chains, --she hadheard tell of such things, --and, instead, had been treated withkindness by a gentle matron, her body washed and clothed, her stomachmade glad with rich soup and bread and milk, while Tartar was amplyprovided for before her own eyes. 

Fouchette was still in a daze when she found herself again in theclosed carriage, with Tartar at her feet, being whirled away at a pacethat seemed to threaten the lives of everybody in the streets. Thesame man sat beside her, and an extra man had, at the last moment, clambered up by the side of the driver. 

This furious speed was continued for a long time, until Fouchettebegan to wonder more and more where they were going. She could notrecognize anything en route, and the man was now serious and taciturn. 

All at once she saw that they were approaching the barrier. Thingslooked differently from a carriage window, and yet there was afamiliar air about the surroundings. 

The man noticed her uneasiness and pulled down the blinds. 

A terrible fear now seized her. Were they going to take her back tothe Podvins?

This fear increased as the speed of the vehicle lessened and as Tartarbegan to move about impatiently. He was trying to get his nose underthe curtain. 

"Hold him down!" said the man in a low voice. He was afraid to touchthe dog himself. 

"Oh, monsieur!" she finally exclaimed, "we are not going to--to----"

"The Rendez-Vous pour Cochers, my little Fouchette, " he put in, with asmile. 

"Oh, mon Dieu! Please, monsieur! Take me anywhere else, --back to thePréfecture--to prison--anywhere but to this place! They'll kill me!Oh, they'll kill me, monsieur!"

"Bah! No, they won't, little one. We'll take care of that. "

"But----"

"Besides, " he continued, reassuringly, "we're not going to leave youthere, so don't be afraid. Maybe you won't have to get out, or be seeneven, if you do as I tell you. Have no fear. "

"Mon Dieu! monsieur does not know. They'll kill you, too!"

"No, they won't. And I know all about them, my child. There are fourof us, and---- Keep the dog down till I open the door. "

The carriage had stopped. 

"Stay right where you are, " he whispered. "Let the dog out. "

Tartar could not have been held in by both of them. He jumped to theground with joyous barks of recognition. 

It was now ten o'clock, and the usual odors of a Parisian secondbreakfast permeated the atmosphere of the cabaret. 

Four or five rough-looking men were lounging about, gossiping overtheir absinthe or apératif. Monsieur Podvin was already, at this earlyhour in the day, on his second bottle of ordinaire. Opposite, asusual, sat le Cochon. 

Madame Podvin was busily burnishing up the zinc bar, and the vigorousand spiteful way in which she did this betrayed the fact that she wasin bad temper. She was reserving an extra force of pent-up wrathagainst the moment when that "lazy little beast Fouchette" should putin an appearance. 

Monsieur Podvin was also irritated, but not because of Fouchette'sprolonged absence. He was concerned about Tartar. 

Le Cochon sympathized with both of them. 

Among the various theories offered for these disappearances madamethought that Fouchette was simply playing truant. The dog did notbother her calculation, as he would not share the punishment. 

Monsieur was certain that the girl had enticed the dog away from home;though why she had taken her basket and hook if she were not comingback he could not say. 

Le Cochon took a gloomy view of it. He was afraid some accident hadbefallen her, --she might have got run over by a fiacre, or have falleninto the river. 

"Nonsense!" protested M. Podvin. "The dog would come home. He wouldn'tget run over too, and you couldn't drown a spaniel. "

It was precisely at this moment that the loud barking of Tartar brokeupon their ears, confirming his master's judgment and sending a thrillthrough everybody in the room. This sensation, however, was by nomeans the same. 

The brute master alone rejoiced for pure love of the dog and for thedog's sake. 

Madame Podvin went in search of a certain stout strap used uponFouchette on special occasions of ceremonial penological procedure. 

Two strange men seated at some distance from each other, and who up tothat moment had ignored each other's existence, exchanged looks ofintelligence and rose as if to leave the place. 

Le Cochon alone seemed disconcerted. His beetle brows clouded, and hisright hand involuntarily sought the handle of his knife. 

The instincts of the robber were this time unerring. For Tartar hadscarcely licked the dirty hand of his master, when his eyes fell uponthe would-be murderer of his beloved mistress. The sight appeared tostartle the animal at first. But only for a second. Then, with a growlof rage that began low and ominously, like the first notes of athunder-storm, and swelled into a howl, the spaniel sprang upon thevillain and fastened his fangs in his fleshy throat. 

CHAPTER III

The onset was so sudden and swift, and the animal had received such apowerful impetus from his spring, that the burly robber went down witha tremendous crash. 

Man and dog rolled together in the dirt, upsetting tables and chairsand raising a terrible uproar. The desperate wretch plunged his knifeagain and again into the body of the enraged spaniel; the latter onlyclinched his teeth tighter and endeavored to tear his enemy by mainbrute strength. 

Madame Podvin, having been diverted from her original purpose by thisunexpected mêlée, set up a scream that would have drowned an activecalliope. 

"That's our bird!" shouted the man who had been serving as Fouchette'sfootman. 

Whereupon his partner and the two agents from the Préfecture who hadbeen waiting within fell upon the struggling pair. 

It was all over in a few seconds. 

Yet within that brief period Tartar lay dead from a knife-thrust inthe heart, and the robber was extended alongside of his victim, hishands securely manacled upon his back. 

"Hold on, gentlemen!" broke in M. Podvin at this juncture, havingfound his voice for the first time, "what does this mean?"

"It means, my dear Podvin, that this amiable gentleman, who has alwaysbeen so handy with his knife, is wanted at the Préfecture----"

"And that you are politely requested to accompany him, " added theother Central man, tapping M. Podvin on the shoulder. 

"But, que diable!"

"Come! Madame will conduct the business all right, no doubt, while herpatriot husband serves the State. "

"That cursed dog has finished me, " growled the prostrate robber. "C'est égal! I've done for him and F---- If it had only been one ofyou, curse you!"

This benevolent wish was addressed to the police agent who was at thatmoment engaged in binding up the horrible wound in the man's throat. Both were drenched with blood, partly from the dog and partly from theman. Le Cochon had been assisted to a sitting posture, sullen, revengeful, with murder in his black heart. 

All at once his inflamed eyes rested upon something in the doorway. Atfirst it was but casually, then fixedly, while the bloated face turnedashen. 

He started to rise to his feet, and would have warded off theapparition with his hands, only they were laced in steel behind him, then, with a deep groan of terror, pitched forward upon his face, senseless. 

It was Fouchette. 

The others turned towards the doorway to see, --there was nothingthere. 

Cowering for a few moments in the darkest corner of the carriage, shehad heard the voice of Tartar raised in anger, followed by the tumult. The latter she had anticipated with fear and trembling. She haddivined at the last moment that these were agents of the police, andthat the object was arrests. The noise of combat roused her fightingblood, the silence that so soon followed heated her curiosity to theboiling-point. It was intolerable. Perhaps the agents were beingkilled. The suspense was dreadful. She felt that she could not endureit another second. 

The man had ordered her to remain in the carriage. The blinds weredown; the coachman stood on the side next to the cabaret. 

Come what might, she must know. So Fouchette slipped softly out on theopposite side and sneaked swiftly around the horses' heads. 

The coachman on guard was for the same moment completely wrapped up inthe riot that had been going on inside the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers;he saw the child just as she reached the doorway, and then he made adash for her, grabbed her, and put her back in the carriage. 

Thus, it so happened that but a single pair of eyes within had seenFouchette, and these eyes belonged to the man who believed her to bedead. 

It was for the purpose of the identification of her assailant thatFouchette had been brought to the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. Tartar hadspared her that trouble, though it was for quite another reason thatle Cochon fell into the grip of the police. 

The latter had experienced no difficulty in identifying Fouchette inspite of her obstinate silence. As she had come down the river fromoutside the barrier, it was clear that she made her living in someriver suburb. A telephonic inquiry brought not only immediateconfirmation from the authorities at Charenton, but had elicited theimportant details that brought the specials from the Préfecture downupon the suspected cabaret. In the man described as "le Cochon" theofficials at once recognized a notorious escaped convict. 

It was not until Fouchette was on her way back to the Préfecture thatit was learned that in their prisoner, le Cochon, they also had anassassin who up to this moment had eluded arrest. 

When the agent had informed her of the death of Tartar she was firstovercome with grief. The sense of her utter loneliness rushed uponher. She wept convulsively. Her sorrow was bitter and profound. 

"Cheer up, my child; don't give way like that. "

Her companion tried now and then to comfort her in his rough way. 

"Ah, monsieur! but he was the only friend I had in the world!" shesobbed. 

"There, there!" he said, soothingly; "you'll have more friends. You'llbe taken care of all right. "

"I don't care what becomes of me, now poor Tartar's gone! He loved me!Nobody will ever love me like he did, --never!"

But when she had recovered from this tempest of tears it was tosuccumb to a tempest of wrath. 

"That wretch! I'll see him under the razor!" she exclaimed, meaningthe guillotine. "He tried to drown me, the assassin! Yes, I know himfor an assassin, --a murderer! It was he who pushed me into the river!"

"Oho!"

"It is true! That man is a fiend, --an assassin! I am ready to telleverything, monsieur! Everything!"

Not for love of truth, --not for fear of law, --but for the love of adog. 

In this mood she was encouraged by all the wiles and insinuating waysknown to the professional student of human nature. So that, whenFouchette reached the Préfecture, she had not only imparted valuableinformation, she had astounded her official auditor. Not altogether bywhat she had revealed, but quite as much by her precocious clevernessand judgment. 

She was taken at once before Inspector Loup, of the Secret Service. 

Fouchette was not in the least intimidated when she found herselfcloseted alone with this mighty personage. For she did not know theextraordinary power wielded by Inspector Loup, and was in equalignorance of the stenographer behind the screen. She was thinking onlyof her revenge. She had sworn, mentally, to have the head of leCochon. She would see him writhing under the guillotine. Not becausehe had tried to drown her, --she would never have betrayed him forthat, --but because he had murdered her dog. She would have vengeance. She would have overlooked his cowardly butchery of a stranger in thewood of Vincennes; but for the killing of Tartar she was ready andeager to see the head of le Cochon fall in the Place de la Roquette. 

Therefore Fouchette confronted Inspector Loup intent upon her ownwrongs, and with a face which might have been deemed impudent but forits premature hardness. 

Inspector Loup was a tall, thin man, with small, keen, fishyeyes, --so small they seemed like beads, all pupil, so keen theyglistened like diamonds, so fishy they appeared to swim round in twoheavily fringed ponds. And they were always swimming, --indolently, asif it were not really worth while, but still leaving the vague andsometimes uncomfortable impression that they were on you, under you, around you, through you; that they were weighing you, analyzing you, and knew what was in your mind and stomach, as well as the contents ofyour inside pockets. 

It was the habit of Inspector Loup to turn these peculiar orbs uponwhoever came under his personal jurisdiction for a minute or twowithout uttering a word, though usually before that time had expiredthe individual had succumbed to their mysterious influence and wasready to make a clean breast of it. 

Their awful influence upon the wrongdoer was intensified by thesoftness of his insinuating voice, that seemed to pry down into humansecrets as a sort of intellectual jimmy, delicate but powerful, and bythe noiselessness of his tread, which had the effect of creeping uponhis victim preparatory to the final spring. 

In other words, Inspector Loup accomplished by moral force what othersbelieved possible only to physical intimidation. Yet thoselaw-breakers who had presumed too much upon his gentleness hadinvariably come to grief, and Inspector Loup had reached his presentconfidential position through thrilling experiences that had left hislank body covered with honorable scars. 

Inspector Loup was practically chief of the Secret System, --or, rather, was director of that system under the eye of the Minister ofthe Interior. He had served a dozen ministries. He had adopted thegreat Fouché as a standard, and no government could change quickerthan Inspector Loup could. If he had been of the Napoleonic period hemight have rivalled his distinguished model. As it was, he did as wellas was possible with the weak governing material with which France wasafflicted. 

The word "spy" being obnoxious in all languages and at all times andin all places, the myriad smaller particles of the Secret System werecalled "Agents. "

The Paris "agent" of this class has, happily, no counterpart in theAmerican government. Our "detectives, " or "plain clothes men, " arelimited to legitimate police duties in the discovery of crime andprosecution of criminals. They are known, are borne on pay-rolls, usually have good character and some official standing. 

The Paris "agent" is a widely different individual, speaking of thatbranch not in uniform and not regularly employed on routine work. Thisclass is formed of government employés, all persons holding governmentlicenses of any kind, all keepers of public-houses and places ofpublic resort subject to government inspection, returned convictsunder police surveillance, criminals under suspension of sentence, allpersons under the eye of the police subject to arrest for one thing oranother, or who may be intimidated. 

Add to these the regular service men and women, then bear in mind thatthe names of all "agents" are secure from public knowledge, even of amilitary court, that they can stab in the dark and never be heldaccountable by their victims, and that appropriations are made in bulkfor this service without an accounting, and you will then understandthe full strength and appreciate the unique infamy of the FrenchSecret System. 

"Eh, bien?"

Inspector Loup had finished his inspection of the childish figurebefore him and was compelled to break the ice. 

"Eh, bien, monsieur; it is me. "

An obstinate silence ensued. 

"Well, what do you want?" finally inquired the inspector, in a tonethat clearly implied that, whatever it was, she would not get it. 

"Nothing, " she replied. 

"Then what are you here for?"

"Because I was brought. "

"Oh!"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"Well, now you are here----"

"Yes?"

"What have you got to say?"

"Nothing. "

"Que diable! child, no fencing!"

Another awkward silence, during which each coolly surveyed the other. 

"Why don't you speak?"

"About what?"

"Yourself. "

"Of what good is it to speak?" she asked, simply, --"monsieur knows. "

"Indeed!"

This child was breaking the record. Inspector Loup contemplated herpetite personality once more. Here was a rare diplomate. 

"You are called Fouchette?" he said. 

"Yes, mon----"

"You come from Nantes. No; you don't remember. You were picked up inthe streets by the Podvins and have been living with them ever since. Fouchette is the name they gave you. It is not your real name. You areostensibly a ragpicker, but are the consort and associate of thievesand robbers and assassins, who have used you as well as abused you. You are suspected to be a regular go-between for these and thereceivers of stolen goods. "

"M-monsieur!"

Truly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur knew more of her than she did. 

"And I know that it is true. You would have been arrested in the actthe next trip. This ruffian, so-called le Cochon, threw you in theriver with the intention of drowning you. You were rescued through thesagacity and devotion of a dog. Both this man le Cochon and Podvinhave been arrested. There are others----"

"There are others, " repeated Fouchette. 

"Which you----"

"I know. "

"Well?"

"The dead man of the wood of Vincennes--last year. Did they ever findthe one who did that?"

"No. "

"Le Cochon!"

"Ah!"

"Very sure. "

"You saw it?"

"Oh, no. I heard them talking. "

"Who?"

"Monsieur Podvin and le Cochon. "

"Go on, mon enfant; you grow interesting at last. "

"Monsieur Podvin was very angry because of it. They quarrelled. Iheard them from my bed in the cellar. The man had resisted, --over afew sous, think! And Monsieur Podvin said it was not worth while, forso little, to bring the police down on the neighborhood. It spoiledbusiness. For the twelve sous Monsieur Podvin said he'd lose athousand francs. "

"M. Podvin was undoubtedly right. "

"Yes; but le Cochon said it was worth a thousand francs to hear theman squeal. "

"So!"

"Yes. And then Monsieur Podvin wanted to take it out of his share. "

"So?"

"Yes; and so they quarrelled dreadfully. "

"And Madame Podvin, --she heard this?"

"Madame is not deaf, monsieur. "

"Ah!"

"She was at the zinc. "

"Truly, Madame Podvin may become of value, " muttered Inspector Loup. 

"Monsieur?"

"Oh! And so you've kept this to your little self all this time. Why?"

"I was afraid; then----"

"I understand. But you got bravely over all this as soon as thismiscreant undertook to put you out of the way, eh?"

"It was not that, monsieur, for what I would be avenged. "

"So you confess to the motive?"

"I would surely be revenged, monsieur, " she avowed, frankly. 

"A mighty small woman, but still a woman, and sure Française, "observed the inspector. 

"He killed my only friend, monsieur. "

"What! Another murder? Le Cochon?"

"Yes. "

"Très bien! Go on, mon enfant; you grow more and more interesting!"

"It was only this morning, monsieur, " said the child, again remindedof her irreparable loss. 

"This morning, eh? The report is not yet in. --There, now, don'tblubber, little one. --Another murder for le Cochon! Pardieu! we shallhave his head!"

"Truly?" Fouchette brightened up immediately at this prospect. 

"The infamous wretch!"

"Yes; go on, monsieur. You grow more interesting!"

"What an infernally impudent child!" observed the inspector tohimself, yet aloud. 

"Monsieur?"

"What--how about this morning's murder?"

"Le Cochon's dreadful knife! Oh! I would love to see him strapped tothe plank and his head in the basket! Yes, ten thousand curses on----"

"Là! là! là! Mon Dieu! will you never get on? Who was le Cochon'svictim this time?"

"Tartar, monsieur, --yes! Ah! Oh!"

"Tartar? Tartar? Why, that's the name of----"

"Yes, monsieur, the dog! Poor Tartar!"

"So le Cochon killed your dog, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur, " sobbed Fouchette. 

Monsieur l'Inspecteur was silent for a while, thoughtfully regardingthe grieving child with his fishy eyes. 

"After all, it was murder, " he said. "Had this man committed no othercrime, he deserves death for having killed such a noble beast. "

"Ah! thank you, monsieur! Thank you very much!"

Having established this happy entente, Inspector Loup and Fouchetteentered into a long and interesting conversation, --interestingespecially to the chief of the Secret System. 

When the interview was over Fouchette was led away almost quite happy. Happier, at least, than she had ever been, --far happier than she hadever hoped to be. First, she had been promised her revenge; second, she was neither to go back to the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers nor to beturned into the street; third, she was to be sent to a beautifulretreat outside of Paris, where she would be taught to read and writeand be brought up as a lady. 

It seemed to the child that this was too good to be true. Thecountry, in her imagination, was the source and foundation of all realhappiness. There was nothing in cities, --nothing but dust and crowds, and human selfishness and universal hardness of heart, and toil andmisery. 

In the country was freedom and independence. She had tasted it in herfurtive morning excursions in the wood of Vincennes. Tartar had lovedthe country. The woods, the fields, and the flowers, --to range amongthem daily, openly and without fear, would be heaven!

To the Parisian all outside of Paris is country. 

And to learn to read and to write and understand the newspapers andwhat was in books!

Yes, it seemed really too much, all at once. For of all other thingscoveted in this world, Fouchette deemed such a knowledge mostdesirable. Up to this moment it had been beyond the ordinary flight ofher youthful imagination. It was one of the impossibilities, --likeflying and finding a million of money. But now it had come to her. Shemight know something she had never seen, or of which she had neverheard. 

To accomplish all of this and to be in the country at the same time, what more could anybody wish?

Yet she was to have more. The inspector, --what was this wonderful man, anyhow, who knew everything and could do anything?--he, the inspector, had promised it. She was to have human kindness and love!

The inspector was a nice gentleman. And the agents, --it was all a lieabout the agents de police. They were all nice men. She had hated anddreaded them; and had they not been good to her? Had they not takenher from the river and fed her and clothed her and visited with swiftpunishment those who had cruelly abused her?

Fouchette was learning rapidly. The change was so confusing, andevents had chased one another so unceremoniously, that she must bepardoned if she grasped new ideas with more tenacity than accuracy. Itis what all of us are doing day by day. 

 * * * * *

It was a long distance by rail. 

Fouchette had never dreamed that a railroad could be so long and thatthe woods and fields with which her mind had been recently filledcould become so monotonous and tedious. Even the towns andvillages, --of which she had never heard, --that were interesting atfirst, soon became stupid and tiresome. She had long ceased to noticethem particularly, her mind being naturally filled with thoughts ofthe place to which she was going, and where her whole future seemed tolay yet undeveloped. She finally fell into a sound sleep. 

The next thing she knew was that she was roughly shaken by theshoulder, and a voice cried, somewhat impatiently, --

"Come, come! What a little sleepyhead!"

It was that of a "religieuse, " or member of a religious order, and itspossessor was a stout, ruddy-faced woman of middle life, garbed insolemn black, against which sombre background the white wings of herhomely headpiece and the white apron, over which dangled a cross, looked still more white and glaring than they were. 

Another woman in the same glaring uniform, though less robust andquite colorless as to face, stood near by on the station platform. 

"Bring her things, sister, --if she has anything. "

Following these instructions, the red-faced woman rummaged in thenetting overhead with one hand while she pulled Fouchette from hercorner with the other. 

"Come, petite! Is this all you've got, child?"

"Yes, madame, " replied the child, respectfully, but with a sinkingheart. 

"So this is Fouchette, eh?" said the white-faced woman, as hercompanion joined her with the child and her little bundle. 

"Yes, madame, " faltered Fouchette. 

But for the eyes, which were large and dark and luminous, and whichseemed to grasp the object upon which they rested and to hold it inphysical embrace, the face might have been that of the dead, soghastly and rigid and unnatural it was. 

"She's not much, very sure, " observed the other, turning Fouchettearound by the slender shoulder. 

"She'll never earn her salt, " said the pale-faced sister. 

Fouchette noticed that her lips were apparently bloodless and that shescarcely moved them as she spoke. 

"Not for long, anyhow, " responded the other, with a significanceFouchette did not then understand. 

Without other preliminary they led Fouchette down the platform. 

"Where's your ticket?" asked the white-faced woman, coldly. 

Fouchette nervously searched the bosom of her dress. In France therailway ticket is surrendered at the point where the journey ceases, as the traveller leaves the station platform. 

"Sainte Marie!" exclaimed the ruddy-faced sister, --"lost it, I'llwager!"

"Where on earth did you put it, child?"

"Here, madame, " said the latter, still fumbling and not a littlefrightened at the possible consequences of losing the bit ofcardboard. "Ah! here--no, it isn't. Mon Dieu!"

"Fouchette!"

The voice of the pale religieuse was stern, though her face restedperfectly immobile, no matter what she said. 

"Let me see----"

"Search, Sister Agnes. "

The ruddy-faced woman obeyed by plunging her fat hand down the frontof the child's dress, where she fished around vigorously butunsuccessfully. 

"Nothing but bones!" she ejaculated. 

Meanwhile, everybody else had left the platform, and the gatekeeperwas growing impatient. 

Sister Agnes was a practical woman. She wound up her fruitless searchby shaking the child, as if the latter were a plum-tree and mightyield over-ripe railway tickets from its branches. 

It did. The ticket dropped to the platform from beneath theloose-fitting dress. 

"There it is!" cried the gatekeeper. 

"Stupid little beast!"

And Sister Agnes shook her again, although, as there were no moretickets, the act seemed quite superfluous. 

Outside the station waited a sort of carryall, or van, drawn by asingle horse, which turned his aged head to view the new-comer, as didalso the driver. 

"Oh! so you're coming, eh?" said the latter. 

"Yes, --long enough!" grumbled Sister Agnes. 

They had driven some distance through the streets of a big townwithout a word, when the last speaker addressed her companion in a lowvoice. 

"You noted the ticket?"

"Yes. "

Another silence. 

"I don't see what they sent her to us for, do you?"

"That is for the Supérieure. "

A still longer silence. 

"It's a pity, " continued Sister Agnes. 

"Yes, they ought to go to the House of Correction. "

"These Parisian police----"

"Chut!"

But they need not have taken even this little precaution beforeFouchette. She had long been lost in the profound depths of her owngloomy thoughts. In her isolation she required but a single, simplething to render her happy, --a thing which costs nothing, --something ofwhich there is an abundance and to spare in the world, thank God!--andthat was a little show of kindness. 

The child was not very sensitive to bad treatment. To that she wasinured; but she had tasted the sweets of kindness, and it hadinspired hopes that already began to wither, encouraged dreams thathad already vanished. 

Fouchette was fast falling into her habitual state of childishcynicism. The police had tricked her, no doubt. She was more thansuspicious of this as she noted their approach towards a pile ofbuildings surrounded by a high wall, which reminded her of LaRoquette. This wall had great iron spikes and broken glass bottles setin cement on top, and seemed to stretch away out of sight in thegrowing shadows of evening. Once proceeding parallel with the wall, the buildings beyond were no longer visible to those outside. 

They stopped in front of an immense arched gateway, apparently of themediæval period, with a porter's lodge on one side, slightly recessed. The gates were of stout oak thickly studded with big-headed nails andbolts. In the heavy oaken door of the lodge was set a brass "judas, " asmall grille closed by an inner slide, and which might be operated byan unseen hand within so as to betray the identity of any personoutside without unbarring the door, --a not uncommon arrangement inFrench gates and outside doors. 

If Fouchette had not been restricted by the sides and top of the van, she might have seen the words "Le Bon Pasteur" carved in the ancientstone above the great gateway. But, inasmuch as she could not haveread the inscription, and would not have been able to understand it inany case, it was no great matter. 

The driver of the van got down and let fall the old-fashioned ironknocker. The judas showed a glistening eye for a second, then closed. This was immediately followed by a slipping of bolts and a clanging ofiron bars, and then the big gates swung inward. They appeared to dothis without human aid, and shut again in the same mysterious way whenthe vehicle had passed. 

"Supper, thank goodness!" said Sister Agnes, with a sigh. 

"You're always hungry----"

"Pretty nearly. "

"Always thinking of something to eat, " continued the other, reprovingly. "It is not a good example to the young, sister. Thecarnal appetite, it is a sin, my sister, to flatter it!"

"Dame! As if one could possibly be open to such a charge here!"retorted the ruddy-faced Agnes. 

"We are taught to restrain, --mortify, --pluck out, --cut off theoffending member. It is----"

"But what are we going to do with this child, Sister Angélique?"interrupted Sister Agnes, and abruptly shutting off the religiousenthusiast. "She must be hungry. And the Supérieure----"

"Cannot be disturbed at this hour. In the morning is time enough foran unpleasant subject. Take her to No. 17, --it is prepared, --in theright lower corridor. "

"Sainte Marie!" cried Sister Agnes, crossing herself, "as if I didn'tknow! Why, I was taken to that cell myself when I came here fortyyears ago!"

"Perhaps, and have never had reason to regret it, quite surely. Buttake this child there. Let her begin her new life with fasting andprayer, as you doubtless did, sister. It will serve to fit her tocome before the Supérieure in the morning with the humble spirit ofone who is to receive so much and who, evidently, can give so little. "

Fouchette was so bewildered with her surroundings that she paid littleattention to what was being said. The great irregular piles ofbuildings, the going and coming of the ghostly figures, the silence, impressed her vividly. Of the nearest building, she could see that thewindows were grated with iron bars; her ears registered the word"cell. " Fouchette did not understand what was meant by the expression"fasting and prayer, " but she had a definite idea of a "cell" in ahouse with grated windows within a high wall. 

"Come! hurry up, my child; I want my supper. Yes, and I'll see thatthey treat you better than they did me. Come this way! Yes, --mon Dieu!Mortify the flesh! Flatter the carnal appetite!"

She muttered continuously, as she led Fouchette along a dark corridorwith which her feet were familiar. 

"Forty years! Ah! Mother of God! Pluck it out! Cut it off! BlessedSainte Agnes, give me patience! Forty years! Holy Mother, pardon me!Forty years! Yes! Reason to regret? May the good God forgive me!--Herewe are, my child. "

She suddenly stopped and turned a key, opened a door, thrust the childwithin, and paused to look around, as if pursuing her reminiscences, oblivious of everything else. 

It was a plain cell, such as was used by the early monks when thisbuilding was a monastery, possibly nine by six feet, with a high, small, grated hole for the only light and air. A narrow iron cot, acombination stand, and a low stool constituted the sole furniture. Arusty iron crucifix in the middle of the wall opposite the bed was theonly decoration. The rest was blank stone, staring white withcrumbling whitewash. 

Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling, --cold, clammy, cheerless. 

The floor was worn into a smooth, shallow furrow lengthwise, showingwhere countless weary inmates had paced up and down, up and down, during the long hours. And beneath the crucifix were scooped out tworound hollows in the solid rock, where countless knees had bent inrecognition of the Christ. 

The religieuse seemed to forget the presence of Fouchette, for shedropped upon her own knees in the little hollows in the cold stonefloor beneath the rusty iron crucifix on the wall. 

"Oh, pardon, my child!" she exclaimed, coming back to the present asshe arose from prayer, "I forgot. Forty years ago, --it comes upon mehere. "

She gently removed the little hat with its cheap flowers, then bentover and kissed the thin cheeks, promising to return soon withsomething to eat. 

Fouchette heard the door close, the key grate harshly in the lock. 

The moisture of the lips and eyes remained upon her cheeks. She feltit still warm, and involuntarily put up both hands, as if to furtherconvince herself that the kisses were real and to hold them there. 

The Christ was to her a myth, the crucifix a vague superstition, prayer a mere unmeaning mummery. But the kisses were tangible andeasily understood. 

But oh! the country!--the woods! the fields! the flowers!--freedom!

She threw herself on the iron cot and wept passionately. 

CHAPTER IV

"Là, là, là!" came the cheery but subdued voice of Sister Agnes. Shehad re-entered the cell to catch the last faint sounds of childishgrief coming out of the darkness. 

"There! Softly now, petite! Where are you? Oh! If they catch me hereat this hour and bringing--sh!"

The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchetteto a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the childover in her arms. 

Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at onceovercome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. Sheflung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face inthe ample bosom. 

"Là, là, là, là! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid ofhere. Nothing at all! Don't take on so. God is everywhere, and takescare of us in the night as well as by day. Fear not! And here, mychild, see what I've brought you! Feel, rather, --taste; you must behalf starved. Here is a big, fat sandwich, and here's another. Andhere's a small flacon of the red wine of Bourgogne. You poor child!You need something for blood. Here's a bit of cheese, too, and, let'ssee, --by the blessed Sainte! I was told to let you have bread andwater and I've actually forgotten the water!

"Now eat! The idea of a big girl like you being afraid in the dark!"

"No, it was not that, madame. Mon Dieu, no! I'm used to that. Indeed, I'm not afraid. It----"

"Then what on earth have you been crying about, child?"

"Oh, madame! it is because--because you are so good to me. Yes, thatis it. I'm not used to that, --no!"

Sister Agnes must have been quite agitated by this frank andunexpected avowal, for she pressed the child to her with still greaterfervor, kissing her time and again more affectionately, after whichshe immediately slipped into the religious rut again below thecrucifix. 

A single ray of moonlight from the high loophole in the wall fellathwart the sombre cell and rested caressingly upon her bowed head asshe knelt and seemed to bless her. 

When she had recovered her self-possession she resumed her seat by theside of Fouchette, who, meanwhile, had been making havoc with theprovisions. 

"Oh! I was afraid--dreadfully afraid--that night, forty years ago, "she whispered. "It was in this same place. And when they left me Ialmost cried my eyes out--and screamed, --how I screamed! Yet no onecame. The next morning I had bread and water. And the next night andday, too. Ah! Sainte Mère de Dieu! how I suffered!"

Fouchette shuddered. 

"And I was a strong, healthy child, but wilful; yet the dark seemedterrible to me--because I was wicked. "

Fouchette wondered what dreadful crime this child of forty years agohad committed to have been thus treated. She must have been very, verywicked. 

"Yes, forty years ago----"

"How much did they give you, madame?"

"Er--what's that, petite?"

"Pardon, madame, but how much time yet do you have to serve?"

"I don't understand, " replied the puzzled woman, unfamiliar withworldly terms. 

"Why, I mean, how long did they send you up for?" asked the child. 

"Send?--they?--who?"

"The police. "

"Police? Mon Dieu! my child, the police had nothing to do with me. "

"Well, the gendarmes. "

"The gendarmes?"

"No; you could never have been guilty, madame! Never! Whatever it wasthey charged you with----"

"Charged? Sainte Marie be praised, I never committed any crime in mylife, --unless it was a crime to be thoughtless and happy. "

"I was sure of that!" cried Fouchette, much relieved nevertheless. 

"Why, I never was charged with any!" protested the astonished SisterAgnes. 

"Then they imprisoned you without trial, as they have me. Ah! monDieu! madame, I see it all now! And forty years! Oh!"

"Well, blessed be the saints in heaven!" exclaimed the enlightenedreligieuse. "What do you think this place is, Fouchette?"

"It is"--she hesitated and changed the form of speech--"is it a--aprison?"

"Why, no! Holy Mother, no!--not a prison, child! You thought it----"

"Yes, madame, " faltered Fouchette. 

"You poor child! Not so bad as that; yet----"

"I see, --a house of correction?"

"No, not that. At least, not--ah! if Sister Angélique had heard youcall 'Le Bon Pasteur' a house of correction it would have been worththree days of bread and water!"

"'Le Bon Pasteur?'" repeated Fouchette. 

"Yes, my child. Didn't you really know----"

"No, madame. "

Sister Agnes pondered. 

"Then why should you remain here?" pursued the curious child. "Can'tyou go away if you want to?"

"But I do not wish to go now, --not now. "

"But if you had wished it at any time. "

Sister Agnes was silent. 

"Then what is this place, madame?"

"A retreat for the poor, --an orphan asylum, --where little girls whohave neither father nor mother, and no home, are sent. And where theyare brought up to be good and industrious young women. "

"D-don't they ever get out again?" asked Fouchette, somewhatdoubtfully. 

"Oh, yes. They are set free at twenty-one years of age if they wish togo, and even sooner if their friends come for them. If they don't wishto go, they can remain and become members of the order, if they aresuitable. I was brought here at ten years of age by my aunt and lefttemporarily, but my uncle died and she was too poor, or else did notwant me, so I was compelled to remain. When I became twenty-one I owedthe institution so much from failure to do my tasks and fines, andwhat my aunt had promised to pay and didn't pay, that I had to stay along time and work it out, and by that time I had become so accustomedto living here that I was afraid to leave the institution and beggedthem to let me become one of the community. 

"Sometimes girls are bad and so lazy they won't work, and then theyare punished. And when they prove incorrigible they are put in theother building, which is a house of correction. But if a girl is goodand obedient and industrious she has no trouble, and may save up moneyagainst the day when she is set at liberty, besides receives the goodrecommendation of the Supérieure, on which she may find honestemployment. "

While the good Sister Agnes spoke truly, she dared not tell this childthe whole truth. 

She dared not say that Le Bon Pasteur, --The Good Shepherd, --althoughostensibly a charitable institution, under religious auspices andsubsidized by the State, for the protection and education of orphangirls during their minority, was practically a great factory which didnot come under the legal restrictions governing free labor in France, and where several hundred girls and young women, whose only offenceagainst society had been to lose their natural protectors, weresubjected to all the rigors of the most benighted penal institutions. 

She dared not warn this poor little novice that her commitment to TheGood Shepherd was equivalent to a sentence of nine years at hardlabor; that good conduct and industry would not earn a day from thatterm, but that bad conduct, neglect, or inability to perform allottedtasks would result not only in severe punishments but an extension ofimprisonment indefinitely, at the pleasure of those who reaped thefinancial reward from the product of the sweat of the orphans. 

She dared not notify this frail waif that these tasks of the needlewere measured by the ability of the most expert, and that the majorityof girls were obliged to work overtime in order to accomplish them;that to many this was an impossibility, and to some death. 

She dared not add to her recital of the money that might be earned andsaved up against the day of liberty that comparatively few were ableto perform the extra work necessary; that fines and charges of allkinds were resorted to in order to reduce such earnings to minimum;and that at the close of her nine years of hard labor for Le BonPasteur the most she could expect was to be thrust into the street inthe clothes she wore, without a cent, without a friend, without ashelter. 

She dared not more than hint at the terrible alternatives placedbefore these young women from their long isolation from the world, --toremain here prisoners for life, or to cast themselves into theseething hell of Paris. 

More than all, she dared not add that all of this was done in aso-called republic, in the name of Civilization, to the glory ofmodern Religion, in love of the Redeemer. 

Fouchette would learn all of this quite soon enough through her ownobservation and experience. Why needlessly embitter her present?

And this was well. Besides, the religieuse was ashamed to admit thesethings, as she would have been afraid to deny them, being dividedbetween the vows of her order and her own private conscience. 

Sister Agnes was a plain, honest woman of little sentiment, but thislittle had been curiously awakened in her breast by the coincidence ofthe time and place which had recalled minutely the circumstances ofher own entrance to the institution. 

She had unconsciously adopted Fouchette from that moment. She mentallyresolved that she would keep an eye on this child. If it could be somanaged, Fouchette should come into her section. And, since the childwas ignorant and ambitious, she should receive whatever advantages ofinstruction were to be had. 

Quick to respond to this sympathy, Fouchette, on her part, mentallyresolved to deserve it. She would be good and obedient, so that thesweet lady would love her and continue to kiss her. How could girls bewicked if all the women of the community of Le Bon Pasteur were likeSister Agnes?

And it would have been quite unnatural and unchildlike, owing to themarked improvement in her condition, if Fouchette had not gone tosleep forgetting her earlier disappointment. 

 * * * * *

Five years in such a place are as one year, --the same monotonous dailygrind in oblivion of the great world outside, --and need not be dweltupon here beyond a brief reference to its results upon Fouchette'scharacter, when we must hurry the reader on to more eventful scenes. 

In this life of seclusion there were three saving features inFouchette's case. First, its worst conditions were very much betterthan those under which she had formerly lived; second, she had beentorn from no family or friendly ties which might have weighed upon herfancy; third, but not least, there was the love of Sister Agnes. 

The petite chiffonnière's ideas of life had been cast in a lowly andhumble mould, so that from the beginning these new surroundings seemedhighly satisfactory, if not in many respects absolutely joyous. Forinstance, the beds were prison beds, but they were clean and thedormitories fairly well ventilated, --luxury to one who was accustomedto sleep in a noisome cellar on filthy and envermined straw. The foodwas coarse and frugal, but it was regular and almost prodigal to onehabituated to disputing her breakfast with vagrant dogs. The clotheswere coarse and cheap and often shabby, but to the child of rags theywere equivalent to royal gowns. The discipline was severe, but it wasunadulterated kindness by the side of the brutality of the Podvin. 

The society of respectable young girls of her own age, and constantcontact with those who were older and of superior birth and breeding, opened up a new world to Fouchette. That these companions were moreor less partakers of similar misfortunes engendered ready sympathies, though the feeling of caste was as powerful among these orphans of theState as in the Boulevard St. Germain. Tacitly acknowledging the lowlyorigin of the rag-heap, Fouchette was content to fag, to go and come, fetch and carry, and to patiently endure the multitude of pettytyrannies put upon her. She accepted this position from the start as amatter of course. 

But it was chiefly in the daily intercourse with the cheerful, ruddy-faced, and rather worldly as well as womanly Sister Agnes thatFouchette found life worth living. It was Sister Agnes who patientlyinstructed her in the mysteries of reading and writing and spellingand the simple rudiments of language and figures. Sister Agnessmoothed her young protégée's pathway through a sea of newdifficulties. Sister Agnes had secret struggles of her own, and hadworn away considerable stone before the image of the Virgin in thecourse of her seclusion; though precisely what the nature of herprivate troubles was must have been known to nobody else. Sister Agneswas not a favorite with the Supérieure, apparently, since every timeshe was called before that dreaded female functionary she seemed muchagitated and held longer conferences with the image of the Virgin inthe little bare chapel. Whatever her mental and moral disturbances, however, Sister Agnes never faltered in her attention to Fouchette. 

For the most part these were surreptitious, though to the recipientthere did not appear to be any reason for this concealment. As oneyear followed another Fouchette saw more clearly, and it caused herto redouble her exertions to please the good woman who risked the illwill of her superiors to shower kindnesses upon the otherwisefriendless. 

Five years to a girl of twelve brings considerable change physicallyas well as otherwise. The change in Fouchette was really wonderful. She remained still rather stunted and undersized at seventeen, thoughface and figure had developed to her advantage. The hardness of thefirst had not wholly disappeared, but it was much modified, while thebones no longer showed through her dress. Her blonde hair had becomeabundant, and, being of peculiar fineness and sheen, lent anattractiveness to features that only a slightly tigerish fulness ofcheeks prevented from being almost classical. This feline expressionof jaws became more marked when she smiled, when a rather large mouthdisplayed two rows of formidable teeth. The pussy-cat and monkey-facesare too common among the French to be called peculiar. 

Her hands and feet were small, her frail body and limbs straight andsupple as those of a young dancer. While she excelled at lively gamesin the great playground under the trees, her complexion was extremelydelicate, even to paleness. Being naturally a clever imitator andalways desirous of the good opinion of Sister Agnes, Fouchette hadacquired graceful and lady-like manners that would have beencreditable to any fashionable pension of Paris. Continuous happinesshad left her light-hearted even to shallowness. 

Fouchette latterly was not popular. She had been first a fag anddrudge, then had been withdrawn from the work-room to serve in thekitchen; from scullery-maid she had been promoted to the chambers ofSister Angélique, who was the stern right arm of the Supérieure; and, finally, was transferred to the holy of holies of the Supérieureherself. 

All through her tractability and adaptability. She was quick to seewhat was wanted, and lent herself energetically to the task ofperformance. The good sisters encouraged her. Especially in bringingto them any stray ideas she had picked up among her companions. SisterAngélique, severe to fanaticism in all the forms of religion, earlyimpressed upon the child the importance and imperative duty of thetruth. It was not only a service to the community, but a service tothe Church and to God for her to keep her superiors posted as to whatwas going on among the inmates of the institution. 

It was a very trivial thing at first, then more trivial things, --meregossip of children. Then her information resulted in the cell andpaddle for the unfortunate and began to be talked about on theplayground and in the work-room. When she heard what had happened, Fouchette was conscience-stricken and ran to Sister Agnes forconsolation. The latter was so confused and contradictory in herdefinition of right and wrong, as to how far one might go for Christ'ssake, that Fouchette was left in doubt. And when Sister Angéliqueasked her for the name of the girl who committed an offence in thedormitory, Fouchette hesitated and wanted to consult Sister Agnes. 

The result was that Sister Agnes was called before the Supérieure, andwas compelled to instruct Fouchette that whatever was required of herby those in authority was right and should be done. It is a doctrineas universal as the Christian religion. 

So Fouchette told, and the tale brought to the offender five days'diet of bread and water in a cell. 

As a tale-bearer who was not afraid to tell the truth Fouchette had inthe course of time ingratiated herself into the favor of SisterAngélique, and finally, as has been shown by her transfer to thegoverning regions, became the factotum of the Supérieure. Theseservices carried privileges. 

They also brought unpopularity. On the playground Fouchette began tobe avoided. In the work-room voices suddenly became hushed as shepassed. In the dormitory she began to experience coldness and hostiledemonstrations. 

Yet up to the present she had been suspected only. When the growingsuspicion became a certainty she was assaulted in the dormitory in thepresence of a matron. The biggest and stoutest girl of the sectionpulled her from her bed in the dark and began to beat her. There wasno outcry at first, --only a silent struggle on the floor. 

But the stout young woman had counted too much on her physicalstrength and upon the supposed weakness of her frail antagonist. ForFouchette was like a cat in another respect, --she fought best on herback, where she was all hands and feet and teeth. Before the fatmatron could find them between the beds the big girl was yelling formercy and the whole section of a hundred girls was in an uproar. 

"Help! help!" screamed the girl. "She's murdering me!"

"Who? Where?"

"Silence!"

"Quick! Help! She's killing me! Fouchette! It's MademoiselleFouchette!"

The matron was thus guided to Fouchette's bed, where she found thelatter tearing the big girl's ear with her teeth, and with her handsclawing the big girl's face. 

To this moment Fouchette had not uttered a word. Then she let flow atorrent of language such as had never before been heard within thesacred precincts of Le Bon Pasteur. She could no more be stopped thanan avalanche. 

The girls of the dormitory closed their ears in their fright at thisflood of profanity. 

"Stop! stop! stop!" cried the matron, now overcome with horror. "Youbelong in the Reformatory! You shall go to the Reformatory! You shallhave the bath and the paddle, you vile vixen!"

And Fouchette's vocabulary having been exhausted for the time being, she ceased. 

Meanwhile, a light was brought, and attendants came running in fromthe other parts of the building. 

Notwithstanding the confused explanation, and the fact that theaggressor's bed was at some distance from the spot where the two werediscovered, which sustained the charge of Fouchette that the latterhad been first attacked, the terrible condition of the big girl wassuch that Fouchette was sent to a cell and held in close confinementtill the next evening. 

She was then taken to Sister Angélique, where she was examined as toher version of the occurrence. The victim of her nails and teeth alsohad a hearing. 

Between the two, and considering all the circumstances, SisterAngélique came to the proper conclusion, and so reported the case tothe Supérieure. 

The latter had Fouchette brought before her. She was a very flabby andmasculine woman, of great brains and keen penetration, and invariablyhad an oleaginous Jesuit priest at her elbow on important occasions tostrengthen her religious standing and to give her decisions the forceand effect of ecclesiastical law. 

"Father Sébastien, " said the Supérieure, "this is a grievous case. What are we to do with these girls that fight like tigers, --that setthe whole blessed institution of Le Bon Pasteur by the ears?"

The Jesuit rubbed his hands, eying the slender figure before themcuriously. 

"A sad case, --a very sad case, " he muttered; "and yet----"

"Mademoiselle Fouchette has been of good service to us, and----"

"And has invited this attack by her friendliness for the institution. No doubt, --no doubt at all, " said the priest. 

"But it is necessary to punish somebody, " persisted the Supérieure, "else we shall lose control of these hot-heads. "

"How about the other one? Mademoiselle----"

"Mademoiselle Angot----"

"Yes. "

"She's pretty well punished as it is. She looks as if she had beenthrough a threshing-machine. How such a chit could----"

Father Sébastien laughed, in his low, gurgling way, and rubbed hishands some more, still eying Fouchette. 

"She's been a good girl for five years, you say?"

"Yes, Father; we could not complain. "

"Five years is a very long time to--to--for a girl like her to begood. Is it not so?"

"Truly. "

"And yet they say her language was dreadfully--er--ah--improper. "

"If you were pulled out of bed in the night and beaten because youspoke the truth to the Supérieure, " broke in Fouchette at this point, "you'd probably use bad language too!"

"Chut! child, " said the Supérieure, smiling in spite of herself. 

"Oh! me?"

"Là, là! Father. " The Supérieure now laughed. 

"Quite possibly, " he added, --"quite possibly. But in a demoiselle likeyou----"

"I'm afraid to send her back to the dormitory. Are you afraid to goback there, Fouchette?"

"No, madame, " replied Fouchette. 

"I think they'll leave her alone after this, " said the priest. 

"They'd better, " said Fouchette. 

"Oho!"

"But you must not quarrel, my dear, --remember that. And if they--well, you come to me or to Sister----"

"Sister Agnes, yes----"

"No, no; Sister Angélique, " interrupted the Supérieure, tartly. "Sister Agnes has nothing to do with you hereafter. "

"Wh-at? But Sister Agnes----"

"Now don't stand there and argue. I repeat that Sister Agnes is tohave nothing to do with you hereafter. Sister Agnes has gone----"

"Gone!"

It was the worst blow--the only blow she had received in these fiveyears. Her swollen lips quivered. 

"I say Sister Agnes has gone. You will never see her again. And it's agood riddance! I never could bear that woman!"

"Oh, madame! madame!"

Fouchette sank to her knees appealingly. 

"Get up!"

"Oh, madame!"

"Get up! Not another word!"

"But, madame!"

"There, my child, " put in the priest. "You hear?"

"But Sister Agnes was my only friend here. Where has she gone? Tell mewhy she has gone. Oh, mon Dieu! Gone! and left me here without a word!Oh! oh! madame!"

"She's gone because I sent her, --because it is her sworn duty toobey, --to go where she is sent. Where and why is none of her business, much less yours. Now let us hear no more from you on that point, oryou will forfeit the leniency I was about to extend to you. Go!"

"But, madame, " supplicated Fouchette, "hear me! Sister Agnes----"

The Supérieure was now furious. She rang a little bell, waving FatherSébastien aside. Two sisters appeared, --her personal attendants, wellknown to those who had suffered punishment. 

"Give this girl the douche!"

"Madame!" screamed Fouchette. 

"Give her the douche--for fighting in the dormitory. In the refectory. Assemble everybody! And if she resists let her have the paddle. Ifthat doesn't bring her to her senses, give her five days on bread andwater. I'll take that rebellious spirit out of her or----"

The two women hustled the trembling Fouchette away from the Presence. 

Fouchette knew the disgrace of the douche. She had seen grown youngwomen stripped stark naked before five hundred girls and have a bucketof ice-cold water thrown over them. One of them had been ill and wasunable to do her work. She had died from the effects. 

Fouchette understood the terrible significance of the paddle. A girlwas stripped and strung up by the wrists to a door and was beaten witha heavy leather strap soaked in brine until the blood ran down herthighs. 

Fouchette comprehended the character of the five days on bread andwater, wherein the victim was forced to remain in her own filth forfive days with nothing to eat but a half-loaf of stale bread and asmall pitcher of water per twenty-four hours. 

Yet, dreadful as was this immediate prospect, and as cruel as was theinjustice meted out to her, Fouchette thought only of Sister Agnes. She would have gone to punishment like a Stoic of old could somebodyhave assured her that what she had just heard was false and thatSister Agnes was yet in the institution. Everything else and alltogether seemed dwarfed by the side of this one great overwhelmingcalamity. 

"How could you have so angered Madame?" said one of herconductors, --both of whom were aware that she was to be unjustlypunished. 

"Be good, now, Fouchette, " whispered the other; "besides, it isnothing, --a little water, --bah!"

They were leading her along a dark corridor, the same through whichshe had been taken five years before. It rushed over her now, --dearSister Agnes!

"I only wanted to know about Sister Agnes, " protested Fouchette. 

Her conductors stopped short. 

"S-sh! Mademoiselle did not know that----"

"That what?"

"Better tell her, sister, " encouraged the other woman. 

"That Sister Agnes was--was suspected of being a creature of theSecret Police?"

"N-no, madame, " faltered the girl, --"I don't understand. And if----"

"And we are for the restoration----"

"The restoration----"

"Of the throne of France. "

"Is it Inspector Loup?" asked Fouchette, suddenly recalling thatpersonage. 

"Inspector Loup, --it is he who is responsible for the withdrawal ofSister Agnes, mademoiselle. "

"Paris, --I will go to Paris!" said Fouchette, brightening up all atonce. 

To the two who heard her it was as if Fouchette had said, "I will goto the moon. "

She slipped from between them and darted down the corridor. Beforethey had recovered from their astonishment she was out of the buildingand out of sight. 

Nothing could have been more absurd. 

But one girl had succeeded in scaling the high walls that surroundedthe establishment of Le Bon Pasteur, and she had been pursued bysavage dogs kept for such exigencies and brought back in mere shredsof clothing, with her flesh terribly lacerated. Even once outside, ifthe feat were possible and the dogs avoided, how was a bareheaded girlwithout a sou to get to Paris, three hundred kilometres? And, thatsurmounted, what would become of her in Paris?

It was absurd. It was impossible. 

Meanwhile, Fouchette evaded the now lighted buildings in the rear andwas skirting the high walls towards the north with the fleetness of ayoung deer. 

The grounds of Le Bon Pasteur embraced about ten acres, a well-woodedsection of an ancient park, the buildings, old and new, being on theside next to the town. By day one might easily see from wall to wall, the lowest branches of the trees being well clear of the ground, thelatter being trampled grassless, hard, and smooth by thousands ofyouthful feet. 

It was now growing too dark to see more than a few yards. This didnot prevent Fouchette from making good speed. She knew every inch ofthe park. And as she ran her thoughts kept on well ahead. 

She had started with the definite idea of leaving the place, butwithout the slightest idea of how that was to be accomplished. Like afrightened rabbit running an enclosure, she sought in vain for someunheard-of opening, --some breach in the wall, some projections bywhich she might scale the frowning barrier. 

Now and then she paused to listen intently. There were no pursuers, apparently. Her heart sank rather than rose at the thought; for itimplied that the chances of her escape were not considered worth anenergetic effort, --that she must inevitably return of her own accord. 

Fouchette was mistaken. It was only that the pursuers were not so sureof their route and were not so fleet of foot. They had called inre-enforcements and were approaching in extended order beneath thetrees, with the moral certainty of rounding her up. 

As soon as Fouchette realized this she felt that she was lost. Therewas no place to hide from such a search, --then they could let loosethe dogs!

With a fresh energy born of desperation she sprang at thechestnut-tree in front of her and began to shin up the rough trunk, boy fashion. Like most generalizations, the statement that a womancannot climb a tree is not an axiomatic truth. It depends wholly uponthe woman and the occasion. Fouchette had often amused her playmatesby going up trees, and was considered a valuable addition to any partyof chestnut hunters. So in this instance the woman and the occasionmet. She was securely perched in the foliage when the scouting partywent by. One sister walked directly beneath the tree. 

"We ought to have brought the dogs, " she muttered. 

Fouchette was breathless. 

Immediate danger past, she began to think of what she should do next. She could not remain up there forever; and if she came down she wouldbe just where she was before, --would probably be run down by the dogs. 

Presently she saw a light glimmering through the trees. Cautiouslypushing the leaves aside, she saw it more distinctly. It was bobbingup and down. It was a lantern. It was coming towards her. Being alantern, it must be carried by somebody, and that this somebody was insearch of her she had no doubt. All the world was out after her. 

The lantern came closer. And then she saw the barbed iron wallimmediately below her, between her and the lantern. It was outside, then; and the tree she was in seemed to overhang the wall. 

A desperate hope arose within her, --scarcely a hope yet, --rather avague fancy. They could not have spread the alarm outside soquickly, --the lantern and its bearer could have no reference to herescape. 

It was now almost immediately beneath her, and she saw that it wasborne by a stalwart young man. It was a chance, --a mere chance, --butshe at once resolved to risk it. 

"S-sh!"

The bearer of the lantern stopped, raised it high, and peered about inevery direction. 

"S-sh!" repeated Fouchette. 

"S-sh yourself!" said the young man, evidently suspecting some trick. 

"Not so loud if you please, monsieur. "

"Not so--but where the devil are you, anyhow?" He had looked in everydirection except the right one. 

"Here, " whispered Fouchette. "Up in the tree. "

"Tonnerre! And what are you doing up there in the tree, mademoiselle?"he inquired with astonishment, elevating his lantern so as to get aglimpse of the owner of the voice. 

"Nothing, " said Fouchette. 

"Well, if this don't--say, mademoiselle. "

"Please don't talk so loud, monsieur. They will hear you, and I willbe lost. "

"Indeed! So you're running away, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"What for?"

"Because they are going to give me the douche, the paddle, andprison. "

"The wretches!" whispered the young man through his half-set teeth. 

"Then you'll help me, monsieur?" asked Fouchette, in a tone ofentreaty. 

"That I will, " said he, promptly, "if I can. If you could swingyourself over the wall, now; but, dame! no girl can do that, " he addedhalf to himself. 

"I'll try it, " said Fouchette. 

"Don't do it, mademoiselle; you'll break your neck. "

For answer to this, Fouchette, who had been working her dangerous wayout on the uncertain branches, holding tenaciously to those above, soas to wisely distribute her weight, only said, --

"Look out, now!"

There was no time to parley, --it was her only hope, --and if she fellinside the wall----

A splash among the leaves and a violent reversal of branches relievedof her weight and--and a ripping sound. 

"Oh, mon Dieu!" she gasped. 

She had swung clear, but her skirts had caught the iron spikes as shecame down and now held her firmly, head downward, --a very embarrassingpredicament. 

"Put out the light, monsieur, please!"

He gallantly closed the slide and sprang to her assistance. 

"Don't be afraid, mademoiselle. Let go, --I'll catch you. Let go!"

"Oh, but I----"

"Let go!"

"Sacré bleu! I can't, monsieur! I'm stuck like a fish on a gaff! Myskirts----"

This startling intelligence, while it relieved his immediate anxiety, involved the young man in a painful quandary. He dared not call forhelp; he was likely to be arrested in any case; he could not go awayand leave the girl dangling there. She was at least three feet beyondhis extreme reach. 

"Let's see, " he said, hastily grabbing his lantern to make anexamination. 

"Oh, put out that light!" exclaimed the girl. 

"But, mademoiselle, I can't see----"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I don't wish you to see! No! I should--put downthe lantern!"

Having complied with this request, he stood under her in despair. 

"Can't you tear the--the--what-you-may-call-it loose?"

"No; it's my skirt, --my dress, --I'm slipping out of it. Look out, monsieur, for--I'm--coming--oh!"

And come she did, head first, minus the dress skirt, plump into thestartled young man's arms. 

CHAPTER V

"Me voilà!" said Fouchette, gaining her feet and lightly shaking herruffled remains together, as if she were a young pullet that hadcalmly 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! Ithank you ever so much. "

She reached up at him and succeeded in pecking a little kiss on hischin. It was her first attempt at the masculine mouth and she couldscarcely 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 ather slight figure in the short petticoat. Her blind confidence in himand 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 tohim. 

"And why not, monsieur?"

"Er--well, mademoiselle, climbing a tree and throwing one's self headover 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 shehad 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 thetime 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 isjust now a scene of riot and bloodshed. It is in a state bordering onrevolution. All France is roused. Royalists and Bonapartists havecombined against the life of the republic. Paris is swarming withtroops. There will be barricades and fighting in the streets, mademoiselle. "

Fouchette recalled the fragments of conversationsoverheard, --conversations between the Supérieure and Father Sébastienand certain visitors. Beyond this casual information she knewabsolutely nothing of what was going on in the outer world. Hemisconstrued her silence. 

"Whom do you know in Paris, mademoiselle?--somebody powerful enough toprotect you?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur, " she promptly answered. "I know one man, --one whosent me here, --who is powerful----"

"May I ask----"

"The Chief of the Secret Police, " she said, lowering her tone to aconfidential 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 becamereassured 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 beheaded off--exposed!"

He spoke enthusiastically, seizing Fouchette's hand warmly. Thatdemoiselle, who was floundering around in a position she did notunderstand, walked along resolved to keep her peace. He assured herthat she might fully rely upon him and his in this emergency. Let herput him to the test. 

The enigmatical situation was more confounding to Fouchette when shewas being overwhelmed with the subservient attentions of the youngman's family; but the less she comprehended the more she held hertongue. They were of the class moderately well-to-do and steeped inpolitics up to the neck. 

Fouchette knew next to nothing about politics. Only that France was arepublic 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 beencalled upon to form an opinion, Fouchette had no opinion on thesubject. She did not care a snap what kind of a government ruled, --itcould make no difference to her. 

Coming in contact with all of this enthusiasm, she now knew that LeBon 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, asInspector Loup was a part of the existing government, he must be arepublican, --which was not so shrewd as it was logical; therefore thatif Sister Agnes was suspected of being friendly to Inspector Loup, thegood sister was a republican and naturally the political enemy of themanagers of Le Bon Pasteur. Whatever Sister Agnes was it must beright. 

But in holding her tongue Fouchette was most clever of all, --whereas, usually, the less people know about government the more persistentlythey talk politics. 

The young man went back to the wall with a fish-pole and rescued therecalcitrant skirt, much to her delight. His mother mended the rentsin it and his sisters fitted her out with a smart hat. 

It was soon developed that Fouchette had no money. This brought abouta family consultation. 

"I must go to Paris, " said Fouchette, determinedly, "if I have towalk!"

"Nonsense!" said the young man. 

"Nonsense!" chimed in mother and sisters. 

"I'll fix you all right, " finally declared the young man, "on a singlecondition, --that you carry a letter from me to Inspector Loup anddeliver it into his own hands, mademoiselle. Is it a bargain?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur, --very sure!" cried the girl, almost overcome bythis 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 yourcase 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, didnot understand what possible interest lay in this direction. 

They were all so effusive and apparently grateful that she was made tobelieve herself a very important personage. 

As the letter was brought out immediately, she saw that it was alreadyprepared, and wondered why it was not sent by post. 

Another family consultation, and it was decided that Fouchette mightlose 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 recapturemight include the careful scrutiny of the trains for Paris the nextday, she should be accompanied at once to a suburban town where shecould 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 evenmore anxious for her to get to Paris than she was herself, if such athing were possible. 

 * * * * *

Fouchette arrived in Paris and alighted at the Gare de l'Est at a veryearly hour in the morning. Her idea had been to go direct to thePréfecture and demand the whereabouts of Sister Agnes. Incidentallyshe would deliver the mysterious letter intrusted to her. 

But during her journey Fouchette had enjoyed ample time forreflection. She was not absolutely certain of her reception at thehands of Inspector Loup; could not satisfy her own mind that he wouldreceive her at all. Besides, would he really know anything aboutSister Agnes?

Fouchette's self-confidence had been oozing away in the same ratio asshe was nearing her journey's end. When she had finally arrived shewas almost frightened at the notion of meeting Inspector Loup. He hadthreatened her with prison. He might regard her now as an escapedconvict. On the whole, Fouchette was really sorry she had run away. Back again in Paris, where she had suffered so much, she realizedagain 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 Boulevards Strausbourg 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 theboulevards and side streets at such an early hour in the morning. Buther volatile nature rose to the touch of excitement. She at onceforgot everything else but the street. Fouchette was a trueParisienne. 

"Paris!" she murmured; "dear Paris!"

As if Paris had blessed her childhood with pleasure, instead of havingstarved 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 theyreached 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 hercuriosity again got the better of her timidity. 

"Where are they going, monsieur?"

"They don't know, mademoiselle. Palais Bourbon, Place de laConcorde, --anywhere it happens to be lively enough to suit. But wherehave 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 amite 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 practicallydeserted. The usual throngs of carriages were passing to and fro. Immense black crowds blocked the Rue Royale at the Madeleine and inthe opposite direction in the vicinity of the Palais Bourbon acrossthe river. These crowds appeared to be held at bay by the cordons ofpolice agents, who kept the Place de la Concorde clear and pedestriansmoving lively in the intersecting streets. 

Fouchette hopped nimbly off the steps of the omnibus she had taken atle Châtelet, to the amusement of a gang of hilarious students from theLatin Quarter, who recognized in her the "tenderfoot. "

The Parisienne always leaves the omnibus steps with her back to thehorses. This keeps American visitors standing around looking for amishap which never happens; for the Parisienne is an expertequilibrist and can perform this feat while the vehicle is at fullspeed, not only with safety but with an airy grace that is oftencharming. 

But Fouchette did not mind the laughter; she had found a good placefrom which to view whatever was to be seen. She did not have to waitlong. 

"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 ofpublic 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 becamean hundred, the hundred became a thousand. It was a mystery whencethese turbulent elements sprang, so quickly did the mob gatherstrength. 

The original offender got away in the confusion. But the struggle wenton, accompanied by shouts, curses, and groans. One platoon of policeagents charged down upon the fighters, then another platoon. 

Friends struck friends in sheer excess of fury. The momentarilyswelling roar of the combat reverberated in the Rue Royale and echoedand re-echoed from the garden of the Tuileries. 

The police agents struggled in vain. They were unable to penetratebeyond the outer rows of the mob. And these turned and savagelyassaulted the agents. 

Then the massive grilles of the Tuileries swung upon their hinges anda squadron of cuirassiers slowly trotted into the Place de laConcorde. They swept gracefully into line. A harsh, rasping sound ofsteel, a rattle of breastplates as the sabres twinkled in thesunshine, and the column moved down upon the snarling horde of humantigers. 

Brave when it was a single unarmed man, the mob broke and ran likefrightened sheep at the sight of the advancing cavalry. 

In the mean time myriads of omnibuses, vans, carriages, and vehiclesof all descriptions, having been blocked by a similar mob in thenarrow Rue Royale and at the Pont de la Concorde in the otherdirection, now became tangled in an apparently inextricable mass inthe middle square. 

The individual members of the crowd broke for this cover, while theagents dashed among them to make arrests. Men scrambled underomnibuses 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 andscattering of the mob she was sorely hustled. She finally sprang intoan open voiture in the jam, and wisely remained there in spite of thedriver'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 narrowpassage, whereat the hatless man shook his fist at the driver andcursed him. 

"Vive la liberté!" retorted the driver. 

"So! We'll give you liberty, you cur!" and the hatless man called tohis nearest companion, "Over with him!"

The two seized the light vehicle and overturned it as if it were anempty basket. The driver pitched forward, sprawling, to the asphalt. Seeing which the wary driver of the voiture in which Fouchette wasseated 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 hisneighbor's. But the young men merely compelled him to whip up and keepthe lines closed, and with this moving barricade they trotted alongsecure from present assault. Fouchette could have touched the neareststudent. She was so frightened that the coachman's admonition wasquite unnecessary. She could not have stirred. 

"Jean!" said the hatless man to the other, who was so close, "you sawLerouge 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 Fouchettereassuringly. "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 wholeplatoon of blue uniforms. The fugitives hesitated for a second ortwo. 

"Over with it!" shouted the hatless young man, at the same momentappropriating a deserted headpiece. 

"Down with the agents!"

A dozen stalwart young men seized the big wheels. The top-heavy loadwavered an instant, then went over with a simultaneous swish and ayell. 

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 amuseall good Parisians. 

Safety now lay in separation. Jean kept on towards the Rue Royale; hisfriends 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 andleft, now driven into the Rue Royale as stray animals into a pound. 

Double lines of police agents supported by infantry and cavalry heldboth ends of this short street; here, where it opened into the Placede la Concorde and there where it led at the Madeleine into the grandboulevards. 

The roar of the mob came down upon him from the Madeleine, where therioters had forced the defensive line from time to time only to bedriven back by the fists and feet of the police agents and with theflat of the cavalry sabre. 

The authorities knew their ground. The Rue Royale was the key to themilitary position. 

But in the attempt to clear the Place de la Concorde the nearestfugitives were thrust into the Rue Royale and driven by horse and foottowards the Madeleine, where they were mercilessly kicked outside thelines to shift for themselves, an unwilling part of a frenzied mob. 

"I'm a rat in a trap here, " growled the young man, having beenliterally thrown through the lower cordon by two stalwart agents. 

The shopkeepers had put up their heavy shutters. The grilles wereclosed. People looked down from window and balcony upon a streetsealed as tight as wax. 

Having witnessed the infantry reserves ambushed behind the Ministry ofMarine filling their magazines, and being confronted by a fresh émeuteabove, Jean Marot began to feel queer for the first time of a day ofbrawls. 

He recalled the historical fact that here in this narrow street athousand people were slain in a panic on the occasion of thecelebration of the marriage of Marie Antoinette. 

A horseman with drawn sabre rode at him and ordered him to move onmore 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 aDeputy!" The man urged him with his sabre. 

"Hold, Monsieur le Caporal! Has, then, a citizen of Paris no longerany 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 youngman. 

"Ah!" growled the cavalryman, doubtfully, "and there is anotherroute. "

All of this time the soldier's horse, trained by much service of thissort during the preceding year, was pushing Jean along of his ownaccord, --now with his breast, now with his impatient nose, --to theconsiderable sacrifice of that young man's dignity. The latter edgedup to the wall, but the horse followed him, shoving him along gentlybut firmly under a loose rein. 

Jean flattened himself against a doorway to escape the pressure. Butthe horse paused also and leaned against him. 

"Oh, say, then!"

"Hello! Here they come again!" exclaimed the corporal, reining in hishorse, with his eyes bent towards the Madeleine. 

At this juncture the door was suddenly opened and Jean, who was fasthaving 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 oneither side, behind, then beneath his 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 caughthis breath; "trying to break into my house, eh? By my saint, youngman, you were in a mighty tight place! Oh, this dreadful day! Nobusiness at all, and----"

"Business!" gasped Jean, --"business, man! Never had a more busy day inmy life!"

"You? Yes! it is such wild young blades as you and thatserious-looking Lerouge who raise all the row in Paris. --I say, monsieur, " broke off the garrulous old restaurateur, and, running tothe window behind the bar, "they're putting the sand!"

Men with barrows from the Ministry of Marine were hastily strewing thesmooth asphalt with sand. It meant cavalry operations. 

"But, Monsieur Jean, where's your double? Where's the other Marotto-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 getssent to dépôt for it. " He had called for something to eat, and lookedup from the distant table in continuation, --

"Lerouge has turned out to be the most rabid Dreyfusarde. We met inthe fun to-day----"

"Fun!"

"There certainly was fun for a while. George Villeroy, when I last sawhim, was being chased to the Rue de Rivoli. Hope he gets back thisevening 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 thesubject 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. Ifyou'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'dpot 'em like rabbits here! You're out of it just in time. "

So closely was the squadron of cuirassiers wedged in the street thatJean could have put his hand upon the jack-boots of the nearestsoldier. There had been a fresh break in the Madeleine guard, and thiswas the reserve. They slowly pricked their resistless way, and one byone the exhausted agents slipped between them to the rear. Some of thelatter dragged prisoners, some supported bruised and bleeding victims. Some persons had been trampled or beaten into insensibility, and thesewere being carried towards the Place de la Concorde. Among them werewomen. There are always women in the Paris mob. 

And this particular mob was a mere political "manifestation. " That wasall. It was the 25th of October, 1898, and the day on which the FrenchParliament met. So the Parisian patriots lined the route to the PalaisBourbon and "manifested" their devotion to liberty French fashion, byclubbing everybody who disagreed with them. 

"Well!" said Jean, "they have pushed beyond St. Honoré. I can get homenow. "

"Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle ofold 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 incontinuous cries. Travel had been resumed in the Rue Royale. Here andthere the shops began to take in their shutters and resume business. Timid shopkeepers came out on the walk and discussed the situationwith each other. 

The ministerial journals sold by wholesale. The angry manifestantsburned them in the streets. Which rendered the camelots more insistentand obnoxious with fresh bundles to be sold and destroyed in the sameway. 

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 ofpatriots howling the Marseillaise in front of the Café de Londres. 

"Enough, " he finally concluded, and turned up towards the Rue Boissyd'Anglais. 

There were evidences of a fierce struggle in the narrow butaristocratic faubourg. Usually a blaze of light at this hour, it wasclosed from street to street and practically deserted. Scaredmilliners and dress-makers and fashionable jewellers peered out fromupper windows, still afraid to open up. Fragments of broken canes, battered hats, and torn vestments told an eloquent story of politicaldifferences. 

"We certainly missed the fun here, " thought Jean. "Hello! What'sthis?"

He had tripped on a woman's skirt in the shadow of the wall. 

"Peste! Why can't our fair dames and demoiselles let _us_ fight itout? There really isn't enough to go round!"

He paused, then returned impulsively and looked at the darkbundle, --stirred it with his foot. It was certainly the figure of awoman. 

"Last round, " he muttered; "next, the Seine!"

His budding professional instincts prompted him to search for thepulse. 

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 bruisedand swollen face. 

"The cavalry, " he murmured. "She's dead; she--well, perhaps it wasbetter. "

He glanced up and down the street, as if considering whether to go hisway or to call the police. There was nobody in sight near enough toattract by cries. The police were busy elsewhere. Then his face all atonce 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 immediateexecution. 

"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 followedit. 

"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 theprejudices most people entertain concerning the dead. Especially theprejudices of Paris police agents and cabmen. To give the Rue deMédecine would set the man to speculating. To mention Le Petit Rougewould be to have him hail the first man in uniform. 

As to Jean Marot, medical student, du Quartier Latin, in his fourthyear, 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 largeproportion of our population, " he would have cynically observed to anycaviller, "is by dying and becoming useful 'subjects. '"

He considered himself fortunate, however, in having a close cab, outof deference to those who might differ with him. They crossed the Pontde Solferino, where a momentary halt gave a couple of alert agents achance 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 newidea. 

"Cocher!"

"Yes, monsieur?"

"Drive to 12 Rue Antoine Dubois. "

"How then!"

"I said--drive--to--No. 12--Rue Antoine Dubois! You know where thatis?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur, --only--er--it is right over there oppositethe----"

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 himselfand, as he entered the uncanny neighborhood, felt around for thesacred amulet that every good Frenchman wears next to the skin. 

"I must get some instruments there before taking this lady home, " Jeanadded. 

The Rue Antoine Dubois is a short street connecting the Rue et Placede l'École de Médecine with the Rue de Monsieur le Prince. One side ofit is formed by the gloomy wall of the École Pratique, where more"subjects" are disposed of annually than in any other dozen similarinstitutions in the world; the other by various medical shops andlibraries, over which are "clubs, " "laboratories, " "cliniques, " andstudent lodgings. At the Rue de Monsieur le Prince the street ends ina great flight of steps. It therefore forms an impasse, or a pocketfor carriages, and is little used. It was now deserted. 

The coachman drew up before a dark court entrance, a sickly lightshining upon him through the surgical appliances, articulatedskeletons, skulls, and other professional exhibits of the nearestwindow. 

"Let us see; I'll take her up-stairs and make a more carefulexamination. "

"You--you're a doctor, monsieur?"

"Yes, --there!" He gave the man a five-franc piece. "No, --never mindthe 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 itover his shoulder and felt his way up the half-lighted stairs. He knewquite well that the man would not wait; believed that the overpaymentwould 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 ofthe 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 politicalextremists--was replete with books, bones, and anatomical drawings, black-and-white and in colors. Two complete skeletons mountedguard, --one in the farther corner, one behind the door. There weretables and instrument-cases, and surgical saws and things in racks. There were easy-chairs, pipes, etc. A skull, with the top neatly sawedoff to serve as cover, formed a tobacco receptacle. 

But the chef-d'oeuvre was from Jean's ingenious hand. It was thebow-backed skeleton behind the door, which had been cleverly arrangedas and was called "Madame la Concierge. " The skeleton had been arrayedin a short conventional ballet skirt and scanty lace cap, and held acandle in one hand and a bottle marked "Absinthe" in the other. Theskirt was to indicate her earlier career, the cap and candle gave aninkling of her later life, while the bottle told the probable cause ofher decease. This skeleton was so controlled by wires and cords thatit could be made to move out in front of the open door and raise thecandle above the head, as if to see who asked for admission. When theroom was in semi-darkness Madame la Concierge of Le Petit Rouge wascharmingly effective, and had been known to throw some people intospasms. 

Placing his lamp in a favorable position, Jean Marot pulled off hiscoat, removed his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded toextend his subject upon what young Armand Massard facetiously called"the dressing-table. "

"Good God!" he exclaimed, falling back a step. "Why, it's thedemoiselle of the Place de la Concorde!"

CHAPTER VI

And so it was. 

Fouchette had been thrown from the voiture in the conflict, and hadbeen run over by the mob and trampled into the mud of the gutter. Socovered with the filth of the street was she, so torn and bruised andbedraggled, that she would have been unrecognizable even to one whohad seen her more often than had her present examiner. 

There was something in the girl's face, however, that had left animpression on the mind of Jean Marot not easily effaced. It was tooindistinct and unemotional, this impression, to inspire analysis, butit was there, so that, under the lamp, Jean had at once recognized theyoung woman of the carriage. 

"It's murder, that's what it is, " he soliloquized, --"victim of 'Vivel'armée. '"

A most careful examination showed there were no bones broken, thoughthe 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. Herpocket lining showed that she had been robbed of anything she may havepossessed. The coarse character and general appearance of the clothingindicated her lowly condition of charity scholar. 

Although rigor mortis had not yet set in, the medical student, armedwith a basin and sponge, proceeded to prepare the body for thescalpel. 

"This ought to suit George Villeroy, " he mused. "And George hasalways said I was no good except on a lark. He has always pined for afresh subject----"

He was attracted by the quality and peculiar color of the hair, andwashing the stains from the head, examined the latter attentively. 

"I never saw but one woman with hair like that, and she--wonder whatthe devil is in Lerouge, anyhow!--I suppose--hold on here! Let ussee. "

He had found a terrible gash in the scalp. Hastily obtaining hisinstruments, 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 breathedonce more. 

"Dame! It is imagination. That break would have killed an ox!"

Yet he took another careful look at the wound, cutting away some ofthe fair hair in order to get at the fracture. Then he made anotherexperiment. 

"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 anythingbut a d----d fool!"

But Jean Marot, if not a doctor, was a young man of action andresources. Even as he spoke he grabbed a sheet and a blanket from acot in the corner, snatched a hat belonging to Massard's grisette fromthe wall, bundled the girl's clothes around the body the best hecould, 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; but above his sense ofpersonal 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 lawis severe in such a contingency. Without hesitation he againshouldered his burden, --this time with infinite gentleness. 

At first he had thought of depositing it in the court below until hehad secured a cab in the Rue et Place de l'École de Médecine; but hesaw an open voiture passing along the elevated horizon of the Rue deMonsieur 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 arrivalis worth ten francs to you, my man!"

 * * * * *

If Jean had followed his first idea and turned to the left instead ofto the right he would have met some of his late revolutionary comradesreturning, in boisterous spirits, to Le Petit Rouge. 

"Parbleu!" exclaimed Villeroy, throwing himself into a chair, "but Ibelieve every police agent in Paris has trodden on my corns this day!"

"For my part, " said young Massard, a thin, pale, indolent young manscarcely 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 haveafforded the other fellow!"

This speaker was known as the double of Jean Marot, only some peoplecould not see the slightest resemblance when the two weretogether, --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 muchpleasure out of us to-day, " put in Villeroy, dryly. 

"We got some of it out of the police, it is true, " said Lerouge. HenriLerouge was half anarchist, socialist, and an extremist generally, ofwhom French politics presents a formidable contingent. 

Armand Massard thoughtfully helped himself to a pipe of tobacco fromthe grim tabatière on the table. Politics was barred at Le PetitRouge, and Lerouge was known to be rather irritable. On the subject ofthe police these young fellows were unanimous. The agents wereconsidered 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 onenow! Don't open!"

Again the peremptory raps, louder than before. There was also a clankof steel. 

"Police agents or I'm a German!" said Villeroy. 

Henri Lerouge, a contemptuous smile on his handsome face, arose toadmit the callers. 

"Wait!" whispered Massard, --"one moment! Madame la Concierge shallreceive them. "

This idea tickled the young men exceedingly. They had little to fearfrom the police, unless it was the chance identification on the Placede la Concorde. But these things are rarely pushed. 

Madame la Concierge was quickly arranged, her candle lighted. Then theother light was turned down. 

When the door was slowly opened four police officers, headed by thecommissary of the quarter, entered. 

But they stopped abruptly on the threshold. The hideous skeleton withthe 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 policeto say that the men recoiled in terror from this horrible apparition. So suddenly, in fact, that the two agents in the rear wereprecipitated headlong down the short flight. The other two vanishedscarcely less hastily. A fifth man, who had evidently been followingthe agents at a respectful distance, received the full impact of thefalling bodies, and with one terrified yell sank almost senseless onthe stair. 

This man was the cabman who had brought Jean Marot to Le Petit Rouge. 

The veteran commissary, however, flinched only for an instant. Havingserved many years in the Quartier Latin, he was no stranger to thepranks and customs of medical students. The next instant he had hisfoot in the doorway, to retain his advantage, and was calling his mena choice assortment of Parisian names. To emphasize this he enteredand gave Madame la Concierge a kick that caused her poor old bones torattle. 

"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, "thatyou are responsible at this moment for any injury to my men?"

"No, monsieur, " retorted Lerouge in his dry fashion; "but, if anybones 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, agedtwenty-four, single, born at Tours. "

Well these young roysterers knew the police formula! Armand Massardgave in his record at a nod. The veteran commissary wrote the repliesdown. 

"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, " headded 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 salutedmilitary fashion. 

"Do you recognize one of these gentlemen as the man who crossed thePont de Solferino this evening with something----"

"Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire, "--pointing promptly to HenriLerouge, --"that's the man!"

"So. You may step aside, Dubat. Now where is that--oh! MonsieurPerriot?"

"Monsieur le Commissaire, " responded the unhappy cabman, who hadscarcely recovered from his mishap in the stairway. He limpedpainfully to the front. 

"Now, Perriot, do you----"

"There he is, Monsieur le Commissaire, " anticipated the cabman. "I'dknow 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 thebody?"

The young man looked puzzled, very naturally, while his companionswere speechless with astonishment. 

The veteran police officer took in every detail of this and mentallyadmitted 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 steadinessof eye that almost staggered the old criminal catcher, "that I do notunderstand 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 thecommissary of police waved them aside. 

"It means that this man, Henri Lerouge, between six and seven o'clockthis evening, carried a dead body from the Rue St. Honoré----"

"Faubourg St. Honoré, Monsieur le Commissaire, " interrupted thecabman, feebly. 

"----Faubourg St. Honoré, crossed the Pont de Solferino, where he wasseen by Agent Dubat, and was brought here in a voiture of place, No. 37, 420, driven by Jacques Perriot. That, arriving in front of thisbuilding, the said Lerouge paid the cabman and dismissed----"

"Pardon, Monsieur le Commissaire, " again put in the coachman, --whowas evidently trying to do his duty under unfavorablecircumstances, --"pardon, monsieur, but he told me to wait. "

"Oh, he told you to wait, did he? And why didn't you say that at theCommissariat, you stupid brute?" The officer was furious. "But he paidyou, 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 fora--a--'stiff'? Not for a hundred francs!"

The students roared with laughter. As the agents had returned a reportmeanwhile 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 abody has been taken from the street and brought here instead of beingturned over to the police for the morgue and usual forms ofidentification. That body is possibly unimportant in itself, and wouldprobably fall to your admirable institution eventually. But the lawprescribes the proper course in such cases. We have traced that bodyto this place and to one of your number. Far be it from me to findfault with the desire of young gentlemen seeking to perfect theirknowledge of anatomy for the benefit of humanity; but we must knowwhere 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, "wesay 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 arrivedhere before this unwarrantable intrusion; in short, that your petitsmouchards there have lied!"

It was impossible not to believe him. Yet the evidence of the cabman, corroborated circumstantially in part by Agent Dubat, seemed equallypositive and irresistible. 

The commissary was nonplussed for a minute. He looked sternly atMonsieur Perriot. The latter was nervously fumbling his glazed hat. Somebody had lied. The commissary decided that it was the unluckycabman. 

"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 anabsinthe or two upon leaving his fare in the terrible Rue AntoineDubois. 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, didyou, or did you not? Answer!"

"Yes, Monsieur le----"

"Where is it? You said you came straight to the Commissariat, --youhaven'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 unfortunatecabby by the shoulder, spun him around with such force as to make theman's head swim. 

"Dubat!"

"Monsieur?"

"Take this idiot to the post. I'll enter a complaint against himbefore the Correctionnelle in the morning. He shall forfeit hislicense for this amusement. Gentlemen, pardon me for this unnecessaryintrusion. Either this fool Perriot has lied or has led us to thewrong number. I'll give him time to decide which. Allons!"

Led by the irate official the squad departed, Monsieur Perriot beinghustled unceremoniously between two agents. 

The young men left behind looked at each other for a minute withoutspeaking, 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, " saidLerouge. "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 thanyou fellows imagine. " And Massard went off into a paroxysm of laughterby himself. 

"Que diable?"

"Oh! oh! oh!" roared Massard. 

He had discovered the missing sheet and blanket and the grisette'shat. His companions regarded him attentively. But the young man merelywent 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 ofthe street. 

"Come in!" cried Villeroy. 

"Let her in, " said Lerouge. 

By which time the door had been opened and a tall, thin gentlemanentered and immediately closed the door behind him. 

"In-Inspector Loup!" ejaculated Lerouge. 

"What! more police?" inquired Villeroy, sarcastically. "We are toomuch honored to-night. "

"Excuse me, young gentlemen, " observed the official, somewhat stiffly, but with a polite inclination of his lank body, "but I must bepermitted to make an examination here--yes, I know; but Monsieur leCommissaire is rather--rather--you know--they will wait until I seefor myself where the error is. Yes, error, I'm sure. "

During this introduction the keen little fishy eyes searched thetable, the floor, the walls, the cot in the corner whereon Massard nowsat seriously erect, and, incidentally, every person in the room. Theywound up this lightning tour of inspection by resting with the lastequivocal 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 tofascinate him, the wondering eyes of the three students becomingriveted 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 examinedthe lock of hair. It was still moist, and there were distinct tracesof blood where it had been cut off from the head. 

"Ah!"

The world of satisfaction in that ejaculation was not communicated tothe students, who were speechless with astonishment. 

"Yes, " said the inspector, as if he were continuing an unimportantconversation, "Monsieur le Commissaire is rather--rather--show me therest of the place, please, " and without waiting for formal permissionproceeded, 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 brainjumped at once from cause to effect. 

"Probably to wrap the body in. Where's the sink?"

In the little antechamber, redolent with the peculiar andindescribable odor of human flesh and its preservatives, was a longice-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 ahuman body there. 

But Inspector Loup scarcely glanced at this receptacle for "subjects. "His eyes sought and found the metal basin such as doctors use duringoperations. 

The basin was still wet, and minute spots of red appeared upon itsrim. A sponge lay near. It had recently been soaked. The inspectorsqueezed the sponge over the basin and obtained water stained withred. 

"Blood, " said he. 

"Blood!" echoed the alarmed students. 

"She's alive, " said the inspector, more to himself than to hisdumfounded auditors, --"alive, probably, else whoever brought her herewould 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 itseemed too preposterous. The inspector had turned to the window andblown a shrill whistle. 

"Pardon me, young gentlemen, but I'll not disturb you any longer thanI can help. What is Jean Marot's address? Good! I will leave youcompany. You will not mind? Dubat will entertain you. It is betterthan resting in the station-house, eh?"

With this pleasantry Inspector Loup hurried away, snatched a cab, andwas driven rapidly to the address in the Faubourg St. Honoré. 

 * * * * *

Jean Marot was the son of a rich silk manufacturer of Lyon, andtherefore lived in more comfortable quarters than most students, in afashionable neighborhood on the right bank of the Seine. He hadreached his lodgings scarcely three-quarters of an hour beforeInspector Loup. But in that time he had stampeded the venerableconcierge, got his still unconscious burden to bed and fetched asurgeon. The concierge had protested against turning the house into ahospital for vagrant women; but Jean was of an impetuous nature, andwilful besides, and when he was told that the last vacant chamber hadbeen taken that day, he boldly carried the girl to his own rooms andplaced her in his own bed. And when the concierge had reported thisfact to Madame Goutran, that excellent lady, who had officiated asJean's landlady for the past four years, shrugged her shoulders insuch an equivocal way that the concierge concluded that her bestinterests lay in assisting the young man as much as possible. 

Dr. Cardiac was not only one of the best surgeon-professors of theÉcole de Médecine but Jean's father's personal friend. The young manfelt that he could turn to the great surgeon in this emergency, thoughthe latter was an expert not in regular practice. 

 [Illustration: HIS STILL UNCONSCIOUS BURDEN]

The appearance of Inspector Loup threw the Goutran establishment intoa fever of excitement. The wrinkled old concierge who had declinedto admit the stranger was ready to fall upon her knees before thedirector of the Secret Service. Madame Goutran hastened to explain whyshe had not reported the affair to the police department as the lawrequired. She had not had time. It was so short a time ago that thecase had been brought into her house, --in a few minutes she would havesent in the facts, --then, they expected every moment to ascertain thename of the young woman, which would be necessary to make the reportcomplete. 

Madame Goutran hoped that it would not involve her lodger, MonsieurJean Marot, who was an excellent young man, though impulsive. Heshould have had the girl sent to the hospital. It was so absurd tobring her there, where she might die, and in any case would involveeverybody in no end of difficulties, anyhow. 

To a flood of such excuses and running observations Inspector Louplistened with immobile face, tightly closed lips, and wandering fishyeyes, standing in the corridor of the concierge lodge. He had notuttered a word, nor had he hurried the good landlady in herexplanations and excuses. It was Inspector Loup's custom. He assumedthe attitude of a professional listener. Seldom any one had everresisted the subtle power of that silent interrogation. Even the moststubborn and recalcitrant were compelled to yield after a time; andthose who had sullenly withstood the most searching and brutalinterrogatories had broken down under the calm, patient, philosophical, crushing contemplation. Questions too often merelyserve to put people on their guard, --to furnish a cue to what shouldbe withheld. 

"And your lodger, madame?" he inquired, after Madame Goutran had rundown, "can I see him?"

"Certainly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. Pardon! I have detained you toolong. "

"Not at all, madame. One does not think of time in the presence of acharming conversationalist. "

"Oh, thank you, monsieur! This way, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. "

Inspector Loup gained the apartment of Jean Marot shortly after theunited efforts of Dr. Cardiac and his amateur assistants had succeededin producing decided signs of returning consciousness. The patient wasbreathing irregularly. 

The police official entered the chamber, and, after a silentrecognition of those present, looked long and steadily at the slightfigure on the bed. 

He then retired, beckoning Jean to follow him. Once in the petitsalon, the inspector motioned the young man to a chair and looked himover for about half a minute. Whereupon Jean made a clean breast ofwhat his listener practically already knew, and what he did not knowhad guessed. 

"Bring me her clothing, " said the inspector, when Jean had finished. 

The young man brought the torn and soiled garments which had beenremoved from the girl. 

Inspector Loup examined them in a perfunctory way, but apparentlydiscovered nothing beyond the fact that they were typical charityclothes, which Jean had already decided for himself. 

"Be good enough to ask Monsieur le Docteur to step in here a fewmoments at his leisure, " he finally said. 

As soon as Jean had his back turned the inspector whipped out a knife, slit the lining of the bosom of the little dress, and taking therefromthe letter addressed to himself, noted at a glance that the seal wasintact, tore it open, saw its contents and as quickly transferred themissive to his pocket. 

"Well, doctor, " he gravely inquired, "how about your young patient?"

"Uncertain, monsieur, but hopeful. "

"She will recover, then?"

"I think so, but it will be some time. She must be removed to ahospital. "

"Yes, of course, --of course. But you will report to me where she istaken from here, Monsieur le Docteur?"

"Oh, yes, --certainly. Though perhaps the girl's friends----"

"She has no friends, " said the inspector. 

"What! You know her, then?"

"It is Mademoiselle Fouchette. "

"A nobody's child, eh?" asked the doctor. 

"Mademoiselle Fouchette is the child of the police, " said InspectorLoup. 

He slowly retired down-stairs, through the court and passage-way, reaching the street. Then as he walked away he drew from his pocketthe letter he had extracted from the little dress. 

"So! Sister Agnes is prompt and to the point. These Jesuiticalassociations are hotbeds of treason and intrigue! They areinconsistent with civil and religious liberty. We'll see!"

CHAPTER VII

When Fouchette opened her eyes it was to see three strange faces ather bedside, --the faces of Dr. Cardiac, Jean Marot, and a professionalnurse. 

But she had regained consciousness long before she could see, her eyesbeing in bandages, and had passively listened to the soft goings andcomings and low conversations and whispered directions, without sayinganything herself or betraying her growing curiosity. 

These sounds came to her vaguely and brokenly at first, then forcedthemselves on her attention connectedly. Surely she was not at Le BonPasteur! Then where was she? And finally the recollection of recentevents rushed upon her, and her poor little head seemed to be on thepoint of bursting. 

Things finally appeared quite clear, until her eyes were free and shesaw for the first time her new surroundings, when she involuntarilymanifested her surprise. 

It certainly was not a hospital, as she had imagined the place. Thesunny chamber, with its tastefully decorated walls hung with pictures, the foils over the door, --through which she saw a still more lovelyroom, --the voluptuous divan and its soft cushions, the heavy Turkishrugs, the rich damask hangings of her bed, --no; it certainly was not ahospital. 

It was the most beautiful room Fouchette had ever seen, --such as herfancy had allotted to royal blood, --at least to the nobility. Toawaken in such a place was like the fairy tales Sister Agnes had readto her long ago. 

"Well, mademoiselle, " said the old surgeon, cheerily, "we're gettingalong, --getting along, eh, Monsieur Marot?"

"Admirably!" said Jean. 

Fouchette glanced from one to the other. The doctor she had longrecognized by voice and touch; but this young man, was he the princeof this palace?

The eyes of the pair rested upon each other for the momentinquiringly. 

Both Fouchette and Jean concluded this examination with a sigh. 

Fouchette had recognized in him the young man who marched by her sidein the Place de la Concorde, --only a rioter. He could not live here. 

Jean Marot, who thought he had seen something in this girl besides herhair to remind him of the woman he loved, acknowledged himself inerror. It had been a mere fancy, --he dismissed it. 

He turned away and stood looking gloomily into the street. But theyoung man saw nothing. He was thinking of the unfortunate turn ofpolitical events in France that had arrayed friend against friend, brother against brother. 

It was social revolution--anarchy!

Now his friend Lerouge and he had quarrelled, --exchanged blows. Theyhad wrangled before, but within the bounds of student friendship. Blows had now changed this friendship to hatred. Blows from those whomwe love are hardest to forgive, --they are never forgotten. 

Yet it was not this friendship in itself that particularly concernedJean Marot. Through it he had calculated on reaching something morevital to his happiness. 

Henri Lerouge had introduced him to Mlle. Remy. It was in the Jardindu Luxembourg. They had met but for a brief minute. The presentationhad been coldly formal, --reluctant. Yet in that time, in the midst ofthe usual conventionalities, Jean had looked into a pair of soulfulblue eyes that had smiled upon him, and Jean was lost. 

His hope of meeting her again lay in and through Lerouge, --and nowthey had quarrelled; and about a Jew!

The fine blonde hair and slender figure of this girl--this "child ofthe police"--had reminded Jean of Mlle. Remy. She possessed the samekind of hair. It was this mental association that prompted him tocarry the unknown to his own lodgings as described. This impulse ofcompassion and association was strengthened by his narrow escape frombeing her slayer. In fact, it was the best thing to have done underall the circumstances. 

Now that the causes and the impulse had disappeared together, he beganto feel bored. The "child of the police" was in his way, --the policemight look after her. Jean Marot had troubles of his own. 

As for Fouchette, she silently regarded the motionless figure at thewindow, wondering, thinking, on her part, of many things. When it haddisappeared in the adjoining room she beckoned to the doctor. 

"The young man, Monsieur Marot?" she asked, feebly. "Is this his----"

"It is his apartment, mademoiselle, " the doctor anticipated. 

"Tell me----"

"Monsieur Marot found you in the street near by, after the riot of the25th of October, and brought you here, --temporarily, you know. "

"Monsieur Marot is very good, " she murmured. 

"Excellent young man!" said the doctor. "A trifle obstinate, but stilla very excellent young man, mademoiselle. "

The girl was silent for a minute, as if lost in thought. 

"Is this his--his bedchamber, doctor?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. "

"I must be moved, " she said, promptly. "You understand? I must beremoved at once. Take me to a hospital, please!"

"Oh, don't excite yourself about it, my child. Soon enough--when youare able. "

"What day of the month is----"

"This? The 5th of November. "

"Ten days! Ten days!"

"Yes, --you have had a narrow call, mademoiselle. "

"And I owe my life to you, doctor. "

"To Monsieur Marot, mademoiselle. "

"Ah! but you----"

"If it hadn't been for him I would never have seen you, child. "

He spoke very gently and in a subdued voice that reached only her ear. Another pause. 

"It is all the more important that I should not trouble him, --disturbhim any longer than necessary. You understand?"

"Very truly, mademoiselle, " replied he; "very thoughtful of you, --verywomanly. It does you credit, Mademoiselle Fouchette. "

"What? You, then, know my name?"

"Certainly. " The doctor observed her surprise with a genial smile. 

"I am very grateful, "--that they should know her for what she was andyet have been so good to her moved her deeply, --"I am very grateful, monsieur. But how did you know it was me, Fouchette?"

"Well, there is one man in Paris who knows you----"

"Inspector Loup?" she asked, quickly. 

"Inspector Loup, " said he. 

"And he knows where I am, --certainly, for he knowseverything, --everything!"

"Not quite, possibly, but enough. "

"I must see Inspector Loup, doctor; yes, I must see him at once. Whenwas he here?"

"Within the hour in which you were brought, " said the doctor. 

He was not disposed to be communicative on the subject of the SecretService, or about its director, having a healthy contempt for thesystem of official espionage deemed necessary to any sort of Frenchgovernment, Royalist, Napoléonic, or Republican. And he wondered whatmysterious band could unite the interests of this charity child withthe interests of the government of France. 

"Where are my clothes, doctor?" she suddenly inquired, half raisingherself on her elbow. 

"Oh! là, là! Why, you can't go now! It is impossible! The inspectorcan come and see you here, can't he?"

"But where are my clothes? Are they----"

"They're here, all right. "

"Let me see them, please. "

"Very good; but don't get excited, --nobody will run away with them;bless my soul! Nobody has had them except--except the nurse andInspector Loup. "

"He?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, --for identification. "

"Oh!"

Fouchette was nervous. She had been reminded of the letter by thefirst mention of the inspector's name. Had anybody found the letter?Was it there still? Supposing it had been lost! What was this letter, anyhow? It must be very important, or the senders would have mailed itin the regular way. She felt that she dared not betray its presence bypushing the demand for her clothing. 

"It is very curious, too, " added the doctor, "how that man couldidentify you by means of clothing he had never before seen. Heprobably had information from where you came, with your description. "

"Y-yes, monsieur, --I----"

Fouchette had never thought of that. It did not comfort her, as maywell be imagined. 

"I'll speak to the nurse about the clothes----"

"Pardon! but it is unnecessary, doctor. I only wanted to know if theywere--were safe, you know. No; never mind. I thank you very much. Ishall need them only when I am removed, which I hope will be soon. "

 * * * * *

In the Rue St. Jacques stands an old weather-stained, irregular pileof stone, inconspicuous in a narrow, crooked street lined with similarhouses. The grim walls retreat from the first floor to the roof, inthe monolithic style of the Egyptian tomb. Beneath the first floor isthe usual shop, --a rôtisserie patronized by the scholars of twocenturies, --famed of Balzac, de Musset, Dumas, Hugo, and a myriadlesser pens. 

The other houses of the neighborhood are equally oblivious to modernopinion. They consent to lean against each other while jointly turningan indifferent face to the world, like a man about whose uglinessthere is no dispute. No two run consecutively with the walks, and alltogether present a sky-line that paralyzes calculation. 

The historic street at this point is a lively market during thebusiness day. Its sidewalks being only wide enough for the dogs tosun themselves without danger from passing vehicles, it is necessaryfor the passers to take that risk by walking in the roadway. Thosewho do not care to assume any risks go around by way of RueGay-Lussac, --especially after midnight, when the street enjoys itspersonal reputation. The Panthéon is just around the corner, and theancient Sorbonne, Louis le Grand, and the College of France line thesame street on the next block, and have stood there for some hundredsof years; but, all the same, timid people certainly prefer to reachthem by a roundabout way rather than by this section of Rue St. Jacques. 

Mlle. Fouchette had accepted a home in the Rue St. Jacques and in thisparticular building because other people did not wish to live there, which made rooms cheap. 

If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" youmight have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that senta long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost insome hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a littlebrass "judas, " disclosing a little, black, hard eye. Assuming thatthis eye was satisfied with you, the slide would be closed with asnap, bolts unshot, bars swung clear, and the heavy, iron-clamped dooropened by a rascally-looking man whose blouse, chiefly, distinguishedhim from the race orang-outang. 

Once within, you would notice that the door mentioned was ribbed withwrought iron and that two lateral bars of heavy metal were used tosecure it from within. It dates from the Reign of Terror. 

Having passed this formidable barrier, you would follow the tunnel toa square court paved with worn granite, enter a rear passage, andmount a narrow stone stairway, the steps of which are so worn as toleave an uncertain footing. If it happens to be in the night or earlymorning, the brass knobs in the centre of the doors will be ornamentedwith milk-bottles. There are four of these doors on every landing, andconsequently four "appartements" on each floor; but as each wing seemsto have been built in a different age from the others, and no twoarchitects were able to accurately figure on reaching the same level, the effect is as uncertain as the stairs. 

Mlle. Fouchette's "home" consisted of but a single square roomfronting on the court by two windows with bogus balconies. Thedaylight from these windows showed a fireplace of immense size, andout of all proportion to the room, a bed smothered in the usual alcoveby heavy curtains, a divan improvised from some ancient article offurniture, a small round table, and an easy-chair, and two or threeothers not so easy. There was one distinguished exception to thegeneral effect of old age and hard usage, and this was a moderncombination bureau, washstand, and dressing-table with folding mirrorattachment, which when shut down was as demure and dignified as anupright piano. 

The effective feature of a place the entire contents of which mighthave been extravagantly valued at twenty-five dollars was theexquisite harmony of colors. This effect is common to Frenchinteriors, where there is also a common tendency to over-decoration. The harmony began in the cheap paper on the walls, extended to bed andwindow draperies, and ended in the tissue-paper lamp-shade that atnight lent a softened, rhythmical tone to the whole. This genial coloreffect was a delicate suggestion of blue, and the result was adoll-like daintiness that was altogether charming. 

The autographic fan mania had left its mark over the divan in theshape of a gigantic fan constructed of little fans and opening outtowards the ceiling. A few pen-and-ink and pencil sketches andstudies, apparently the cast-off of many studios, were tacked up hereand there. The high mantel bore an accumulation of odds and endspeculiar to young women of low means and cheap friendships. That wasall. But a French girl can get the best results from a room, as shecan from a hat, with the least money. 

Mlle. Fouchette had reached all of this private magnificence through asingular concatenation of circumstances. 

_First_, Inspector Loup. 

That distinguished penologist had laid his hands upon Mlle. Fouchettein no uncertain way. 

An order of arrest was at this very moment lying in a certainpigeon-hole at the Préfecture. She had seen it. The name of "Mlle. Fouchette" appeared in the body thereof in big, fat, round letters, and a complete description, age, height, color of hair and eyes, andother particulars appeared across the back of this terrible paper, which was duly signed and ready for service. 

A tap of the bell, --a push of an electric button, --and Mlle. Fouchettewould be in prison. 

There were five distinct counts against her, set forth in ponderousand damning legal phraseology and briefed alphabetically with aprecision that carried conviction:

"A. --Vagrant--no home--supposed to have come from Nantes. 

"B. --Consort of thieves--confession of life convict called 'leCochon, ' drawer 379, R. M. L. 29. 

"C. --Go-between of robbers of the wood of Vincennes and receivers ofstolen goods. Confession of M. Podvin, wine merchant, now servingterm of twenty-one years for highway robbery, drawer 1210, R. M. L. 70. 

"D. --Fugitive from State institution, where sent by lawful authority. See Le Bon Pasteur, Nancy. R. I. 2734. 

"E. --Lost or destroyed public document addressed to the Préfecture andconfided to her care under her false representation of being anauthorized agent of that department of the government. "

The service of this dreadful order of arrest, behind which crouchedthese crimes ready to rise and spring upon her, was suspended byInspector Loup. For which tenderness and mercy Fouchette was merely toreport to the Secret Service bureau in accordance with a preconcertedarrangement. 

_Second_, Madeleine. 

Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for hisforbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Changetowards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She wassomewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was solimited that it was a sensation. 

It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road toCharenton long, long ago!

Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under thelustrous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figurelooked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through thescant bloomer bicycle suit. 

The owner of this face and figure did not recognize in the other thepetite chiffonnière de Charenton. That would have been too much toexpect. 

"Pardon! but, mademoiselle----"

Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless. 

"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"

"Fouchette?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker ofCharenton? But of course not, --it was long ago, and I have changed. "

The other stared at her with her big black eyes. 

"I was hungry, --you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind, --and I donot easily forget, mademoiselle, --though I'm only Fouchette, --no!"

"What! Fouchette--the--dame! it is impossible!"

"Still, it is true, mademoiselle, " insisted Fouchette, laughing. 

"Ah! I see--I know--why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'--oh! sacrébleu! To think----"

She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out atarm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet andback again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrilythe while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous passers. 

Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of thepretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toneddown by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath. 

"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, petite!" exclaimed thebicycliste. 

"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital--only a fewdays----"

"Pauvrette! Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion, " said theother, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "Youshall tell me everything, dear. "

"But, Mademoiselle--er----"

"Madeleine, --just Madeleine, Fouchette. "

"Mademoiselle Madeleine----"

"I live over here, --au Quartier Latin. It is the only place--the placeto see life. It is Paris! C'est la vie joyeuse!"

"Ah! then you no longer live at----"

"Let us begin here, Fouchette, " interrupted Mlle. Madeleine, gravely, "and let us never talk about Charenton, --never! It cannot be apleasant subject to you, --it is painful to me. "

"Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle, I----"

"So it is understood, is it not?"

"With all my heart, mademoiselle!" said Fouchette, not sorry toconclude such a desirable bargain. 

"Very good. We begin here----"

"Now. "

"Yes, and as if we had never before seen or heard of each other. "

"Exactly. "

"Good! Now, what are you doing for a living, Fouchette?"

"Nothing. "

"Good! So am I. "

They laughed quite a great deal at this remarkable coincidence as theywent along. And when Mlle. Fouchette protested that she must dosomething, --sewing, or something, --Mlle. Madeleine laughed yet moreloudly, though Mlle. Fouchette saw nothing humorous in the situation. 

"Nobody works in the Quartier Latin, " said Madeleine. "C'est la viejoyeuse. "

"But one must eat, mademoiselle----"

"Very sure! Yes, and drink; but----"

Mlle. Madeleine scrutinized her companion closely, --evidently Mlle. Fouchette was in earnest. Such naïveté in a ragpicker was absurd, preposterous!

"Well, there are the studios, " suggested Madeleine. 

"The--the studios?"

"Yes, --the painters, you know; only models are a drug in the markethere----"

"Models?"

"Yes; and, then, unless one has the figure----" she glanced atFouchette doubtfully. "I'm getting too stout for anything but Romanmothers, Breton peasants, etc. You're too thin even for an angel orballet dancer. "

"I'm sure I'd rather be a danseuse than an angel, " saidFouchette, --"that is, if I've got any choice in the matter. "

"But one hasn't. You've got to pose in whatever character they want. Did you ever pose?"

"As a painter's model? Never. "

Having ensconced themselves in a popular café restaurant on BoulevardSt. Michel, the pair ordered an appetizing déjeuner, and Madeleineproceeded to enlighten Fouchette on the subject of the profession, --thecharacter and peculiarities of various artists, their exactions ofmodels, the recompense for holding a certain pose for a given time, thedifficulty and art of resuming exactly the same pose, the studios forclasses in the nude, the students generally and their pranks andgames, --especially upon this latter branch of the business. 

Mlle. Fouchette listened to all this with breathless interest, as maybe imagined. For it was the opening up of a new world to her. Thevivid description of the dancing and fun at the Bal Bullier filled herwith delight and enthusiasm. She mentally vowed Madeleine as charmingand condescending as ever. The girl had volunteered, good-naturedly, to make the rounds of the studios with her and get her "on the list. "When Madeleine offered to engineer Fouchette's début at the Bullierthe latter cheerfully paid for the repast the other had ratherlavishly ordered. 

The mere chance rencontre had changed Fouchette's entire plan of life. She had bravely started for the grand boulevards with the idea ofsecuring employment among the myriad dressmaking establishments ofthat neighborhood, and thus putting to practical use her industrialknowledge gained at Le Bon Pasteur. 

Fortunately for her, Monsieur Marot's generous liberality had placedher beyond immediate need. A matron had equipped her with a new thoughsimple costume and had given her a sum of money as she left, --merelysaying that she acted according to instructions; but Fouchette feltthat it was from her prince. 

It was on the advice of Madeleine that Fouchette had secured thisplace in the Rue St. Jacques. 

"It will make you independent and respected, " said the practicalgrisette. "You've got the money now; you won't have it after a while. Take my advice, --fix the place up, --gradually, don't you know? You'llsoon make friends who will help you if you're smart; and one must havea place to receive friends, n'est-ce pas? And the hotels garnis robone shamefully!"

And, while Mlle. Fouchette did not dream of the real significance ofthis advice, she took it. The details were hers. She knew the value ofa sou about as well as any woman in Paris, and no instructions wererequired on the subject of expenditures. She collected, piece bypiece, at bottom prices, those articles which had to be purchased;made, stitch by stitch, such as required the needle. 

To Mlle. Fouchette the simple, cheaply furnished and somewhat tawdrylittle room in the Rue St. Jacques was luxury. She was proud of it. She was perfectly contented with it. It was home. 

With the confidence of one who has seen the worst and for whom everychange must be for the better, Fouchette had succeeded where otherswould have been discouraged. This confidence to others often seemedreckless indifference, and consequently carried a certain degree ofconviction. 

Among a certain class of wild young men and confirmed BohemiansFouchette had quickly achieved a sort of vogue which attaches to aneccentric woman in Paris. She was eccentric in that she dancedeccentric dances, was the most reckless in the sportive circle, thehighest kicker at the Bullier, and, most of all, in that she had nolovers. Unlike the Mimi Pinsons of the Murger era of the quarter, Fouchette was the most notorious of grisettes without being agrisette. At the fête of the student painters at the Bullier she hadbeen borne on a palanquin clad only in a garland of roses amidthousands of vociferous young people of both sexes. The same night shehad kicked a young man's front teeth out for presuming on libertiesother girls of her set would have considered trifling. 

Fouchette at once became the reigning sensation of "la vie joyeuse. "Having had little or no pleasure in the world up to her entrée here, she had plunged into the gayety of the quarter with an abandon thatwithin two short months had made the Bohemian tales of Henri Murgertame reading. 

Her pedal dexterity in a quarrel had won for her the sobriquet of "LaSavatière. "

The "savate" as practised by the French boxer is the art of using thefeet the same as the hands, and it is a means of offence not to bedespised. It is the feline art that utilizes all four limbs in combat. Fouchette acquired it in her infancy, --in the fun and frequentscrimmages of the quarter she found occasion to practise it. Mlle. Fouchette's temper was as eccentric as her dances. 

On the wall of Mlle. Fouchette's room hung a rude crayon of thatdamsel by a prominent caricaturist. It was a front view of her face, in which the artist had maliciously accentuated, in a few boldstrokes, the feline fulness of jaws, the half-contracted eyelids, thealert eyes, and general catlike expression, --to be seen only whenMlle. Fouchette was in anger. It was the subtle touch of the master, and was labelled "La Petite Chatte. "

"Ah, cè!" she would say to curious visitors, --"it is not me; it is themind of Léandre. "

As Mlle. Fouchette stood tiptoeing before a little folding mirror onthe high mantel, the reflection showed both front and sides of a facethat betrayed none of these characteristics. In fact, the blonde hair, smoothed flat to the skull and draping low over the ears, after thefashion set by a popular actress of the day, gave her the demure lookof a young woman who might shriek at the sight of a man in hisshirt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge byappearances, --of a woman, especially. The slender figure showed thatthe physical indications in the delicately rounded arm, the taperfingers, and shapely feet were justified by the proportionatedevelopment of the rest of her anatomy. Nature had been gentle ratherthan generous. Mlle. Fouchette was in demand for angels and balletdancers. 

Her face, evidently, did not suit Mlle. Fouchette, since she was atthis moment in the act of touching it up and making it over withcolors from an enamelled box, --a trick of the Parisienne of everygrade. 

Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely put the finishing touches to her artisticjob when her door vibrated under a vigorous blow. 

She paused, hesitated, flushed with symptoms of a rising temper. Onedoes not feel kindly towards persons hurling themselves thus againstone's private door. But the noise continued, as if somebody beat theheavy planking with the fist, and Mlle. Fouchette threw the door open. 

Mlle. Madeleine staggered into the room. 

"How's this? melon!"

"Oh! so you're here, --you are not there!" gasped the intruder, fallinginto a seat and fixing her black eyes sullenly upon the other. 

Mlle. Fouchette closed the door with a snap and confronted her visitorwith a hardening face. 

"I thought it was you, Fouchette!"

"Madeleine, you're drunk!"

"No, no, no, no! I have had such a--a--turn, deary, --pardon me! Butshe had the same figure, --the same hair, --mon Dieu!"

"Who?"

"Oh! I don't know, Fouchette, --the woman with him, you know, --withHenri, Fouchette!"

The speaker seemed overcome with mingled terror and anger. She stoppedto collect her thoughts, --to get her breath. 

"What a fool you are, Madeleine! I wouldn't go on that way for thebest man living! No!"

And Fouchette thought of Jean Marot, and mentally included him. 

"Oh! Fouchette, dear, you do not know! You cannot know! You neverloved! You cannot love! You are calm and cold and indifferent, --it isyour nature. Mine! I am consumed by fire, --it grips my very vitals!Ah! Fouchette!"

"Bah! Madeleine, it is absinthe, " said Fouchette, only halfpityingly. 

"No, no, no, no!" moaned the other, covering her face with her hands. 

"So this Lerouge has disappeared, eh? Well, then, let him go, fool!Are there not others?"

"Mon Dieu! Fouchette, how you talk!"

"Who is this lucky woman?"

"I do not know, --I do not know! Pardon me for thinking it, Fouchette, but I was half crazy, --I thought but just now that it was--was you!"

"Idiot!"

"Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves. "

"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me, Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is, --I never evensaw him, --had disappeared----"

"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he runaway?"

"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men dothat, you silly goose!"

"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name'sRemy, --yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thinglike--oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'mhalf crazy!"

"I believe you, " said Fouchette. 

"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me----"

Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped. Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this suddensurprise was----

"Well, melon!" she snapped. 

"I--why, I didn't know you----"

"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other. 

"That her name was Remy. "

"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly. 

"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but Idon't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy. "

Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire. 

"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunkengossip!"

Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's rightfoot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette wentdown like a log. 

CHAPTER VIII

Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over herwith a wet towel and weeping hysterically. 

They immediately embraced and wept together. 

Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall andbrought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not onlysuddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later shehad forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving manyendearments behind her. 

Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst thanhad been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it. 

What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing. 

Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing. 

Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almostintangible, --like the millionaire employer to his humble workman, covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop. 

When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and shewould have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than shewould have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, byaccident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first timehe had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume todetain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her andtalk to her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was gettingalong, --condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the momentin a former servant. 

In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la viejoyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Petit Rouge. " It attracted theattention of his associates. 

"First Lerouge, now it's Jean, " growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafingalong the quais nights, --it's malaria. "

"He's greatly changed, " remarked another student. 

"It's worry, " said another. 

"Probably debts, " observed young Massard, thinking of his chiefaffliction. 

"Bah! that kind of worry never pulls you down like this, " retorted acompanion. 

"Now, don't get personal; but debts do worry a fellow, --debts andwomen. "

"Put women first; debts follow as a necessary corollary. "

"He ought to hunt up Lerouge. What the devil is in that Lerouge, anyhow?"

"More women, " said Massard. 

"And debts, eh?"

"Oh, well, " continued Massard, "if she is a pretty woman----"

"She's more than pretty, " cut in George Villeroy, --"she's a beauty!"

"Hear! hear! Très bien!"

But the student turned to the "subject" on the "dressing-table, "humming a gay chanson of Musset:

 "'Nous allons chanter à la ronde, Si vous voulez. Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blonde Comme les blés!'"

"A man never should neglect his lectures for anything, and that's whatboth Lerouge and Jean are doing, " remarked a serious young man, looking up from his book. 

"Yes, and the first thing our comrade Marot will know, he'll berecalled by his choleric father. He's taken to absinthe, too----"

"Which is worse. "

"_The_ worst----"

"And prowling----"

"And moping off alone. "

"What's the lady's name?"

"Mademoiselle Fouchette. "

"What! the wild, untamed----"

"La Savatière? Nonsense!"

"Here's a lock of her hair in evidence, " remarked Massard, going to adrawer and taking out a bit of paper. "It is as clear to my mind as itwas to the police that Monsieur Marot had that girl, or some otherlike her, up here that night. "

"Let me see that, " said Villeroy. 

"I found it on the floor the next day, --the inspector took away quitea bunch of it, " continued the young man, as the other examined thelock. 

"There are two women who have hair like that, " saidVilleroy, --"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, whichis it?"

"Her name is Remy, --Mademoiselle Remy, " observed Massard; "and, asGeorge says, she's a beauty----"

"Which cannot be said of La Savatière. "

"No; and yet----"

"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close, " interrupted Massard. "I neversaw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette, who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up adozen times. "

"Very likely, " observed Villeroy. 

 * * * * *

It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumière was en fête. Theleft bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students, was especially joyous. 

There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stoodapart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf, gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine. 

Jean Marot loved the noble span that for more than three hundred yearshad connected the ancient Isle de la Cité with the mainland. A longline of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen ofevery degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stoutmen-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers, countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above thesemassive stone arches of three centuries. 

Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by onelittle, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had heanalyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that thelittle winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly sounexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, butrather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he neverthought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reducedto a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover, Henri IV. , looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly. 

A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused theyoung man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date. 

"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fête, " said arich contralto voice behind him. 

He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his faceand to look into a pair of bold black eyes. 

"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Marot!"

"Hello! Madeleine, --you, Fouchette?"

"Yes, monsieur, " replied the latter gayly. "And you, --is it a day todream of casting one's self into the Seine?"

Meanwhile, the object of this raillery was busily extracting bits ofcolored paper from his eyebrows and neck, --a wholly uselessproceeding, for both girls immediately deluged him with a freshavalanche. 

Madeleine was in her costume à la bicyclette, her sailor hat tippedforward to such a degree that it was necessary for her to elevate herstout chin in order to see anything on a level. Mlle. Fouchetteaffected the clinging, fluffy style of costume best suited to herfigure, while her rare blonde hair à la Merode was her distinguishingfeature. She dominated the older and stouter girl as if the latterwere an irresponsible junior. 

Jean Marot knew very well the type of grisette indigenous to theQuartier Latin. 

The day justified all sorts of familiarity, and his black velvet béretand flowing black scarf were an invitation to fraternity, goodfellowship, and confidence. 

Both young women were in high spirits and carried in bags of fancynetting with tricolor draw-strings their surplus stock of confetti, and an enormous quantity of the surplus stock of other manifestants intheir hair and clothing. As fast as Jean picked out the confetti fromhis neck Mlle. Madeleine playfully squandered other handfuls on him, winding up by covering the young man with the entire contents of herbag at a single coup. 

"Ah! Madeleine!"

"Monsieur will buy us some more, " replied that young woman. 

"How foolish!" said Mlle. Fouchette, affecting a charming modesty. Shehad a way of cocking her fair head to one side like a bird. 

"Never mind, mes enfants, " said Jean. "Come along. "

The three linked arms and passed off the bridge and up the RueDauphine and Rue de Monsieur le Prince for Boulevard St. Michel, thelively young women distributing confetti in liberal doses and takingsimilar punishment in utmost good humor, Jean not sorry for the timebeing at finding this temporary distraction. He had generouslyreplenished the pretty bags from the first baraque, though they werequickly emptied again in the narrow Rue de Monsieur le Prince, where ahot engagement between students and "filles du quartier" was inprogress. 

Mlle. Madeleine was fairly choking with laughter. She had just caughta young man with his mouth open, by a trick of the elbow; and as hemutely sputtered confetti her petite blonde companion caught her longskirt aside and kicked his hat off. This "coup de pied" wasadministered with such marvellous grace and dexterity that even thevictim joined in the roar of laughter that followed it. A thin smilespread over her pale face as Jean looked at her. 

"La Savatière, --bravo!" cried a youth. 

"C'est le lapin du Luxembourg, " said another. 

"It is Mademoiselle Fouchette. "

"There, monsieur, " remarked Fouchette, slyly, "you see I'm gettingknown in the quarter. "

"I don't wonder, " said Jean, laughing. 

They found seats beneath the awnings at the Taverne du Panthéon. Therain of confetti was getting to be a deluge. He asked them what theywould have. 

"Un ballon, garçon, " said Mlle. Fouchette, promptly. 

This designated a small glass of beer, served in a balloon-shapedglass like a large claret glass. 

Madeleine also would take "un ballon, " Jean contenting himself withthe usual "bock, "--an ordinary glass of beer. 

Each covered the beer with the little saucer, to protect it from theoccasional gust of confetti that even found its way to the extremerear of the half a hundred sidewalk sitters. 

Mlle. Fouchette had been studying the young man from the corners ofher eyes. She saw him greatly changed. His handsome face betrayedmarks of worry or dissipation, --she decided on the latter. What coulda young man in his enviable position have to worry about? Was itpossible that----

"Monsieur, " she began at once, with the air of an ingénue, "they sayyou strongly resemble one Lerouge, --that you are often taken one forthe other. Is it so?"

He glanced at her inquiringly, while Madeleine patted the ground withher foot. 

"Have you ever seen Henri Lerouge?" he asked. 

"No, never, " replied Fouchette. 

"Does he look like me, Madeleine?"

"Not much, monsieur, " responded that damsel. "Have you seen him, --haveyou seen Lerouge lately?"

"No, --no, " said he. 

"From what I learn, " remarked Mlle. Fouchette, with a precision andnonchalance that defied suspicion, "Monsieur Lerouge is probably offin some sweet solitude unknown to vulgar eye enjoying his honeymoon. "

Madeleine shot one furious glance at the speaker; but not daring totrust her tongue, she suddenly excused herself and disappeared in thethrong. 

Jean saw that she had been cut to the quick, and her abrupt actionserved for the moment to dull the pain at his own heart. He concealedhis resentment at this malicious--but, after all, this "child of thepolice" could not know. He shifted the talk to Madeleine. 

"You seem to have offended her, mademoiselle. "

"Bah! Madeleine is that jealous----"

"What? Lerouge?"

"Of Lerouge. Can't you see?"

"No, --that is, I didn't know that she had anything in common withLerouge. "

"Ah, ça! When she flies into a rage at the mention of him and anotherwoman? Monsieur is not gifted with surprising penetration. "

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is rather a handsome girl, " he observed, tentatively. While he mentally resolved not to be robbed of his ownsecret he was not averse to gaining any information this girl mightpossess. 

"Perhaps, " said she, --"for those who admire the robust style. But youshould see the other; she's an angel!"

"Indeed?"

It was hard to put this in a tone of indifference, and he felt hereyes upon him. 

"Yes, monsieur. "

"I'd like to see her. You know angels are not to be seen every day. "

"Monsieur Lerouge can be trusted, I suppose, to render these visionsas fleeting and rare as possible. "

He winced perceptibly. 

"But Madeleine has magnificent eyes, " he suggested. 

"This other has the eyes of heaven, monsieur. "

"And as for figure----"

"Chut! monsieur is joking, --the form of a Normandie nurse!Mademoiselle Remy is the sculptor's dream!"

Jean Marot laughed. This unstinted praise of the girl who hadfascinated him, --who had robbed him of his rest, --who had without aneffort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul, --it wasincense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye, --a mostexcellent judgment. It extracted the sting----

"Yes, " continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were somuch glass, "a great artist said to me the other day----"

"Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty, --the 'sculptor'sdream, ' you know, --does she do the studios of the quarter?"

"No! Why should she?"

He was silent. Would she have another drink?

"Thanks! Un ballon, garçon, " repeated Mlle. Fouchette. 

They looked at the crowd in silence for a while. 

The scene was inspiriting. With the shades of evening the joyousstruggle waxed more furious. The entire street was now taken up by themerrymakers, who made the air resound with their screams and shrieksof laughter. The confetti lay three or four inches deep on the walks, where street gamins slyly scraped it into private receptacles forsecond use. The haze of dust hung over the broad Boulevard St. Michellike a morning fog over a swamp. Mlle. Fouchette watched the scene fora few minutes without a word. Both were thinking of something else. 

"She'll soon get over it, never fear. "

"I suppose so, " he said, knowing that she still spoke of Madeleine, and somewhat bored at her reappearance in the conversation. 

"A woman does not go on loving a man who never cares for her, --wholoves another. "

"'Loves another, '" he repeated, absently. 

"But if Madeleine meets them just now, --oh! look out, monsieur! She'sa tiger!"

He shuddered. He was unable to stand this any longer; he roseabsent-mindedly and, with scant courtesy to the gossipper, incontinently fled. 

"Ah! what a handsome fellow he is! Yet he is certainly a fool aboutwomen. A pig like Madeleine! But, then, all men are fools when itcomes to a woman. "

With this bit of philosophy Mlle. Fouchette buried her dainty nose inthe last "ballon. " She quenched a rising sigh by the operation. Forsome reason she was not quite happy. As she withdrew it her facesuddenly became all animation. 

"Ah!" she muttered, "I'd give my last louis now if that melon, Madeleine, could only see that. "

Directly in front of her and not ten feet distant a young man and ayoung girl slowly forced a passage through the conflicting currents ofboisterous people. The man was anywhere between twenty-five andthirty, of supple figure, serious face, and sombre eyes that lightedup reluctantly at all of this frivolity. It was only when they wereturned upon the sweet young face of the girl at his side that theytook on a glow of inexpressible sweetness. 

"Truly!" said Mlle. Fouchette to herself, "but she is something on mystyle. "

Which is perhaps the highest compliment one woman can pay another. Itmeant that her "style" was quite satisfactory, --the right thing. YetMlle. Fouchette really needed some fifty pounds of additional flesh toget into the same class. 

If the rippling laughter, the shining azure of her eyes, theever-changing expression of her mobile mouth, and now and then therapt look bestowed upon her companion were indications, she certainlywas a happy young woman. Her right hand rested upon his arm, her leftshielded her face from the too fierce onslaughts of confetti. Neitherof them took an active part in the fun. That, however, did not deterthe young men from complimenting her with a continuous shower ofconfetti. The girl laughingly shook it out of her beautiful blondehair. 

"Allons donc! She has my hair, too!" thought Mlle. Fouchette. It isimpossible not to admire ourselves in others. 

With the excitement of an unaccustomed pleasure mantling her neck andcheeks the girl was certainly a pretty picture. The plain and simplecostume was of the cut of the provinces rather than that of Paris, butit set off the lithe and graceful figure that needed no artificialityof the dressmaker to enforce its petite perfection. 

"That must be Lerouge, " thought Mlle. Fouchette. "He does looksomething like--no; it is imagination. He is not nearly so handsome asMonsieur Marot. But she is sweet!"

The couple were forced over against the chairs by the crowd and Mlle. Fouchette got a good look at them. The eyes of Mlle. Remy methers, --they sought the face of her companion, and returned and restedcuriously upon Mlle. Fouchette. The glance of her escort followed inthe same direction. And even after they had passed he half turnedagain and looked back at the girl sitting alone amid the crowd underthe awning. 

Jean Marot had plunged into the throng to try and shake off theunpleasant suggestions of Mlle. Fouchette. While he felt instinctivelythe feminine malice, it was none the less bitter to his taste. It wasopening a wound afresh and salting it. He felt that the idea suggestedby "La Savatière" was intolerable, --impossible. He paced up and downalone in the Luxembourg gardens until retreat was sounded. Then here-entered the boulevard by the Place de Médicis, dodged a bevy ofsinging grisettes in male attire, to suddenly find himself face toface with the object of his thoughts. 

How beautiful, and sweet and pure and innocent she looked! Thelaughing eyes, the profusion of hair with its tint of gold, nowsparkling with confetti, the two rows of pearls between their richrims of red, --it surely was an angel from the skies and not a womanwho stood before him! And his knees trembled with the desire to lethim to the earth at her feet. 

The young girl regarded him first in semi-recognition, then with blankastonishment, --as well she might. She shrank closer to her protector. 

Henri Lerouge had at first looked at his former friend with a dark andscowling face; but Jean had seen only the girl, and therefore failedto note the expression of satisfaction that swiftly succeeded. 

"Pardon! but, monsieur, even Mardi Gras does not excuse a boor. " AndLerouge somewhat roughly elbowed him to one side. 

The insult from Lerouge was nothing. Jean never thought of that. Shehad come, she had ignored him, she had gone, --the woman he loved!

He stood speechless for a moment, then staggered away, his self-lovebleeding. 

Unconsciously he had taken the direction they had gone, slowly gropinghis way rather than walking, next to the iron fence of the Luxembourggardens, past the great School of Mines, along the Boulevard St. Micheltowards the Observatory. Like a drunken man he stuck close to the walls, and thus crossed the obtuse angle into Rue Denfert-Rocherau. Hesitatingat the tomb-like buildings that mark the entrance to the catacombs atthe end of that street, he leaned against the great wrought-iron grilleand tried to collect his thoughts. 

He remembered now; this was where he had gone down one day to view therows and stacks of boxes and vaults of mouldering bones. Yes, he evenrecalled the humorous idea of that day that there were more Parisiansbeneath the pavements of Paris than above them, and that they sleptbetter o' nights. 

The cold wind stirred the branches, and they grated against the fencewith a dismal, sighing sound. 

"Loves another!"

Was it not that which it said?

"Loves another!" in plain and well-measured cadence. 

And the word "l-o-v-e-s" was long and sorrowfully drawn out, and"another" came sharply decisive. 

He wandered on, aimlessly, yet in the general direction of Montrouge. Fouchette, --yes, she had told the truth. He--where was he?

The streets up here were practically deserted, the entire population, apparently, having gone to the boulevards. Here and there somerez-de-chaussée aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges. Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered withconfetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the daytogether. 

Rue Hallé, --he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it. 

All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgarearth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly roundthe corner from the Avenue d'Orléans and came towards him. Her stoutfigure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down thestreet, --the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perchedforward at an angle of forty-five degrees. 

It was Mlle. Madeleine. 

What could she be doing here at this hour, --she, who lived in RueMonge?

Before he could answer this question she was almost upon him. But shewas so absorbed in her own purposes that she saw him not, merelyturning to the right up the Rue Hallé with the quick and certain stepof one who knows. Her black brows were set fiercely, and beneath themthe big dark eyes glittered dangerously. Her full lips were tightlycompressed; in the firmness of her tread was a world of determination. 

Jean had obtained a good view of her face as she crossed the street, and he shuddered. For in it he saw reflected the state of his owntempestuous soul. He had read therein his own mind distempered by loveand doubt and torn by jealousy, disappointment, and despair. 

He recalled the warning of Mlle. Fouchette, and he trembled for thewoman he loved. Well he comprehended the French character where loveand hatred are concerned. 

At Rue Bezout the girl turned to the left, crossed over, and ranrather than walked towards Avenue Montsouris. Jean ran until hereached the corner, then cautiously peeped around it. Had he not doneso he would have come upon her, for she had stopped within two metresand fumbled nervously with a package. He could hear her panting andmurmuring in her deep voice. She tore the string from the package withher teeth and threw the paper wrapper on the ground. 

It was a bottle of bluish liquid. 

His heart stood still as he saw it; his legs almost failed him. If hehad seen the intended victim of this diabolical design approaching atthat moment he felt that he would scarcely have the strength to cryout in warning, so overwhelmed was he with the horror of it. 

What should he do? Would they come this way, or by Montsouris? Hemight fall upon her suddenly, --overpower her where she stood!

Jean softly peeped once more around the angle of the wall. She wastrying to extract the cork from the bottle with a pair of tinyscissors, but, being half frantic with haste and passion, she had onlybroken one point after the other. 

A sweet and silvery laugh behind him sent his heart into his throat. It was Lerouge and Mlle. Remy coming leisurely along the Rue Hallé. Itwas now or----

But a second glance over his shoulder showed that they had turned downthe narrow Rue Dareau. Madeleine had made a mistake. 

Almost at the same instant a piercing shriek of agony burst upon thenight. The scream seemed to split his ears, so near was it, so deepthe pain and terror of it. 

And there lay the miserable woman writhing on the walk, tearing outgreat wisps of her dark hair in her intolerable suffering, and fillingthe air with heart-rending cries of distress. 

CHAPTER IX

Jean Marot was not, as has been seen, an extraordinary type of hiscountrymen. Sensitive, sympathetic, impulsive, passionate, extreme inall things, he embodied in method and temperament the characteristicsof his race. 

His first impulse upon realizing what had befallen the misguided girlof Rue Monge was the impulse common to humanity. But as he flew to hersuccor he saw others running from various directions, attracted by hercries and moved by the same motive. 

To be found there would not only be useless but dangerous, --for thegirl as well as for himself. Therefore he discreetly took to hisheels. 

Flight at such a moment is confession of guilt. So it followed quitenaturally that a comprehension of what had happened sent aconsiderable portion of the first-comers after the fleeing man. 

"Assassin!"

"Vitrioleur!"

"Stop him!"

These are very inspiring cries with a clamorous French mob to howlthem. To be caught under such circumstances is to run imminent risk ofsummary punishment. And the vitriol-thrower is not an uncommon featureof Parisian criminal life; there would be little hesitation where oneis caught, as it were, red-handed. 

Jean ran these possibilities through his mind as he dashed down a sidestreet into the Avenue Montsouris. Fear did not exactly lend himwings, but it certainly did not retard his flight. And he had theadditional advantage that he was not yelling at every jump and lost notime in false direction. He doubled by way of Rue Dareau, cut into Ruede la Tombe-Issoire over the net-work of railway tracks, and thendropped into a walk. But not so soon that he escaped the observationof a police agent standing in the shadow in the next narrow turningtowards the railway station. The officer heard his panting breath longbefore Jean got near him, and rightly conjectured that the student wasrunning away from something. To detain him for an explanation was anobvious duty. 

"Well, now! Monsieur seems to be in a hurry, " said he, as he suddenlystepped in front of the fugitive. 

This official apparition would have startled even a man who was not ina hurry, but Jean quickly recovered his self-possession. 

"Yes, monsieur; I go for a doctor. A sick----"

"Pardon! but you have just passed the hospital. That won't do, youngman!"

The agent made a gesture to seize his suspect, but at that moment Jeansaw two other agents in the distance walking rapidly to join theircomrade. He upper-cut the man sharply, catching him squarely on thepoint of the chin and sending him to grass with a mangled and bleedingtongue. 

There appeared to be no help for it, but the young man now had twofresh pursuers. At any rate, he was free. It would be to his shame, hethought, if he could not distance two men in heavy cowhide boots, encumbered with cloaks and sabres. So he started down the Rue de laTombe-Issoire with a lead of some two hundred yards. He saw lights anda crowd and heard music in the Place St. Jacques, and knew that he wassaved. 

The Place St. Jacques was en fête. A band-stand occupied the spot longsacred to the guillotine, up to its last removal to La Roquette. Theimmediate neighborhood of Place St. Jacques would have preferred theguillotine and an occasional execution as a holiday enjoyment, butnext to witnessing the sanguinary operation of the "national razor, " adance was the popular idea of amusement. And the Parisian populacemust be amused. The government considers that a part of its duty, andencourages the "bal du carrefour" by the erection of stands andproviding music at the general expense. It was the saturnine humor ofPlace St. Jacques to dance where men lost their heads. However, itwould be difficult to find a street crossing in Paris big enough todance in that had not been through the centuries soaked with humanblood. 

It was a little fresher in Place St. Jacques, that was all. 

The band-stand being on the exact place marked in the stone pavementfor the guillotine, it gave a sort of peculiar piquancy to theoccasion. While the proprietors of the adjacent wine-shops and "zincs"grumbled at the new order of things, the young people were making thebest of Mardi Gras in hilarious fashion. 

Though Place St. Jacques presented a lively scene beneath itsscattered lights, it was one common enough to Jean Marot, who now onlysaw in the romping crowd and spectators the means of shaking off hispolice pursuers. Among the hundred dancers he made his way to the mostcompact body of lookers-on, where the indications were that somethingunusually interesting was in progress. Here the blown condition of astudent would not be noticed. 

Yells of delight from those in his immediate vicinity awoke hiscuriosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of thefigure this expression grew enthusiastic. 

"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus. 

"Très bien! très bien!"

"It is well done, that!"

"Yes, --it is the Savatière!"

Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back tohim the beginning of his bitter day. 

So it was Mlle. Fouchette. 

She made, with another girl of her set, a part of a quadrille, and thepair were showing off the agile accomplishments of the semi-professionalsof the Bullier and Moulin Rouge. These consisted of kicking off thenearest hats, doing the split, the guitar act, the pointed arch, andsimilar fantasies. Having forced his way in, Jean was instantlyrecognized by Mlle. Fouchette, who shook the confetti out of her blondehair at every pose. Then, as she executed a pigeon-wing on his corner, she whispered, --

"Hold, Monsieur Jean, --wait one moment!"

"Will monsieur be good enough to take my place for the last figure?"

Her partner, a thin, serious-looking young man, had approached Jeanhat in hand and addressed him with courtly politeness. 

Jean protested with equal politeness, --yet the offer served his turnadmirably, --no! no!--and the mademoiselle, monsieur?

"Come, then!" cried that damsel, as the last figure began, and sheseized Jean by the arm and half swung him into position. 

The polite monsieur immediately disappeared in the crowd. 

The French are born dancers. There are young Frenchmen here who wouldbe the admiration of the ballet-master. Frenchmen dance for the purelove of motion. They prefer an agile partner of the softer sex, but itis not essential, --they will dance with each other, or even alone, andon the pavements of Paris as well as on the waxed floor of aball-room. 

Jean Marot was, like many students of the Quartier Latin, not only alover of Terpsichore, but proficient in the art of using his legs forsomething more agreeable than running. There were difficult steps andacrobatic feats introduced by Mlle. Fouchette which he could executequite as easily and gracefully. And thus it happened that the youngman who three minutes before had been fleeing the police was now sweptaway into the general frivolity of Place St. Jacques. In fact, he hadalready absolutely forgotten that he had come there a fugitive. 

Mlle. Fouchette had just joyously challenged him to make the "arc auxpieds" with her, --which is to pose foot against foot in midair whilethe other dancers pass beneath, --when Jean noticed a keen-eyed policeagent looking at him attentively. 

 [Illustration: SHE SEIZED JEAN BY THE ARM]

"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently, and up went hisfoot against the neat little boot, and the other six passed merrilybeneath. 

When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whisperedtogether earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibistood. 

Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as theywalked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt atconcealment. 

"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking ofMadeleine?"

Jean shivered. Poor Madeleine!

"What a fool a girl is to run after a man who doesn't care for her!"

"And when a man runs after a girl who doesn't care for him?" he asked, half seriously. 

"Oh, then he's worse than a fool woman, --he's a man, monsieur. "

They reached her neighborhood. 

"Come up, monsieur, will you? It is but a poor hospitality I canoffer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-cepas?"

"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle. "

Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded tolet them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired. 

When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up theeasy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on thebed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small roundoil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at herinquiringly. 

"It is Poupon, " said she. 

"Oh! it's Poupon, is it?"

"Yes. It's a darling, isn't she?"

"It--she--is. "

"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"

She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a singlegriddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with greatcomplacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side. 

"It certainly is convenient, " said Jean, feeling that some comment wasdemanded of him. 

"When I cook I put it in the chimney. "

"But you have other fire in winter?"

"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear, --and then, really, one goes to thecafés every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at thestudios, because of the models. "

"Oh!"

"Yes, monsieur, " she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally awarm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. AndI can have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine, monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here, " shecontinued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it isquite snug and comfortable, is it not?"

She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited acupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboardwas in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door beingcovered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below. 

"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed, " said he, "but--but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"

"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon?Monsieur shall see. "

She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the littleoil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace. 

Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard herwithout comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, heseemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep hismind from sinking into its recent despondency. 

"Tiens! but, mademoiselle, " he cried, starting up all at once, "youare not going to try to cook on that thing!"

"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, chérie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"

Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself anddomestic friend, --the worst that could be said of which friend wasthat it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product, --but it did notinterfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette. She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which weretemptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dishof olives. 

"But----"

"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something. "

"You need not have cooked anything, " he protested. "A bit of bread andwine would have----"

"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieurthinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love----"

"Mademoiselle!"

"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise, --and--now, the omelette, monsieur. Let me help you. "

They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two glasses ofwine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finallyobserving, with a smile, --

"It can't be Madeleine----"

"Oh! to the devil with----" but he checked himself by the suddenrecollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine. 

Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of hisconfusion. 

"Is it necessary, then, " he asked, cynically, "that I should be inlove with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceiveher. 

"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate--one. "

"Both, perhaps, " he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette andI hate your questions. "

"You hate Monsieur Lerouge, therefore you love where he is concerned. "

He was silent. It was evident that he did not care to discuss hisprivate affairs with Mlle. Fouchette. 

The girl was quick to see this and changed the conversation topolitics. But Jean had no mind for this either. He began to growimpatient, when she opened a box on the mantel and showed him anassortment of pipes. 

"Oho! You keep a petit tabac?"

"One has some friends, monsieur. "

"A good many, I should judge, --each of whom leaves a pipe, indicatingan early and regular return. "

"I don't find yours here yet, monsieur, " she replied, demurely. 

"But you will, " said he. "And I'll come up and smoke it occasionally, if you'll let me. "

"With pleasure, monsieur, even if you had not saved my life----"

"There! Stop that, now. Let us never speak of that, mademoiselle. Yougot me into a scrape and got me out again, so we are quits. "

"But----"

"Say no more about it, mademoiselle. "

"I may _think_ about it, I suppose, " she suggested, with affectedsatire. 

"There, --tell me about the pipes. "

"Oh, yes. Well, you know how men hate to part with old pipes? And theyare, therefore, my valuable presents, monsieur. "

"Truly! I never thought of that. "

"No?"

"And the pictures?"

"Scraps from the studios. "

He got up and examined the sketches on the walls. They were from pen, pencil, and brush, from as many artists, --some quite good and showingmore or less budding genius. He paused some time before the head ofhis entertainer. 

"It is very good, --admirable!" he said. 

"You think so, monsieur?"

"It is worth all the rest together, mademoiselle. "

"So much? You are an artist, Monsieur Jean?"

"Amateur, --strictly amateur, --yet I know something of pictures. Now, Ishould say that bit is worth, say, one hundred francs. "

"Nonsense! The work of five minutes of--amusement; yes, making fun ofme one day. Do you suppose he would give me one hundred francs?"

"The highest effects in art are often merest accident, or the resultof the spirit of the moment, --some call it inspiration. "

"But if you didn't know who did it, monsieur----"

"It is not signed. "

"N-no; but, monsieur, every one must know his work. "

"Yes, and every one knows that some of it is bad. "

"Oh!"

"And this is----"

"Bad too, monsieur, " she laughingly interrupted. "When any one offersme fifty francs for that thing, Monsieur Jean, it goes!"

"Then it is mine, " said Jean. 

"No! You joke, monsieur, " she protested, turning away. 

"Not at all, " said he, tendering her a fresh, crisp billet de banquefor fifty francs. "Voilà! Is that a joke?"

Mlle. Fouchette colored slightly and drew back. 

"Monsieur likes the picture?"

"Why, certainly. If I didn't----"

"Then it is yours, monsieur, if you will deign to accept it asa--present----"

"No, no!"

"As a souvenir, monsieur. "

"Nonsense! I will not do it, " he declared. "Come, mademoiselle, youare trying to back out of your offer of a minute ago. Here! Is it mineor is it not? Say!"

"It is yours, monsieur, in any case, " she said, in a low voice, "though you would have done me a favor not to press me with money. Besides, 'La Petite Chatte' is not worth it. "

"I differ with you, mademoiselle; I simply get a picture cheap. "

Which was true. There was no sentiment in his offer, and she saw it asshe carefully folded the bank-note and put it away with a sigh. It wasa great deal of money for her, but still----

There was a great noise at the iron knocker below. This had beenrepeated for the third time. 

"My friends below are growing impatient, " he thought. 

Jean had that inborn hatred of authority so common to many of hiscountrymen. It often begins in baiting the police, and sometimes endsin the overthrow of the government. 

"Whoever that is, " observed the girl, "he will never get in, --never!"

"Good!" said Jean. 

"He won't get in, " she repeated, listening. "Monsieur Benoit willnever let anybody in who makes a racket like that. "

"Not even the police?"

"No, --he will not hear them. "

"Oh! ho! ho! ho!" roared Jean; "not hear that!"

"I mean he would affect not to know that it was the police. "

She went to a window and listened at the shutter. Then, returning toher guest, who was placidly smoking, --

"It is the police, sure. "

"I knew it. "

"Now, what do you suppose the agents want at this hour?" It was oneo'clock by the little bronze timepiece on the mantel. 

"Me, " said Jean. 

"You!" She glanced at him with a smile of incredulity. 

"Yes, petite. "

He puffed continuous rings towards the ceiling, wondering whether hehad better explain. 

Presently came a tap at the door. The girl hastened to answer it, while Jean refilled his pipe thoughtfully. When she came back she wasmore excited. She whispered, --

"Monsieur Benoit, le concierge, he wants to see you, --he must let themin!"

"Well, let them in!" exclaimed the young man. 

He had thought of Madeleine, chiefly, and the effect of his arrestupon her. A hearing must inevitably lead to her exposure, if not tohis. But it was useless to endeavor to escape. He felt that he wastrapped. Being in that fix, he may as well face the music. 

"But he wants to see you personally, " said the girl. 

Jean went to the door, where the saturnine Benoit stood with hisflaring candle. The man cautiously closed the inner vestibule door. 

"S-sh! It is a souricière, monsieur, as I suspected when you came inwith that little she-devil! The agents were at your heels. Now, Monsieur Lerouge, do you wish to escape or do you----"

"I intend to remain right here. There is no reason that I shouldbecome a fugitive. "

"As you please, monsieur, " replied the concierge, with an expressiveshrug. And the clack of his sabots was soon heard on the stone stair. 

"Funny, " said Jean, re-entering, "but he takes me for Lerouge. Thereis some sort of understanding between them. He would have aided me toescape. "

"And why not have accepted, monsieur?" asked Mlle. Fouchette. 

"I would rather be a prisoner as Jean Marot than escape as HenriLerouge, " replied the young man. 

"Anyhow, " muttered the girl, "perhaps the police have made the samemistake. "

"I'm afraid not, " said Jean. 

Mlle. Fouchette regarded the young man admiringly from the corner ofher eye. He was so calm and resolute. He had resumed the easy-chairand pipe. 

Mlle. Fouchette was not able to veil her feelings under this cloak ofindifference. Her highly nervous organization was sensibly disturbed. One might have easily presumed that she was in question instead ofJean Marot. She had hastily cleared the little table and replaced thelamp, when her unwelcome visitors announced themselves. Mlle. Fouchette promptly confronted them at the door. 

"Well, gentlemen?"

"Mademoiselle, pardon. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am after thebody of one M. Lerouge. "

"Then why don't you go and get him?" snapped the girl. 

"Pardieu! that is precisely why we are here, mon enfant. He----"

"He is not here. "

"Come, now, that will not do, mademoiselle. At least he was here a fewmoments ago. --Where is that dolt Benoit?"

"M. Lerouge is not here, I tell you; never was here in his life!"

"Oh!"

It was M. Benoit, the concierge. His astonishment was undoubtedlygenuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error inbelieving her a police decoy. 

"Mademoiselle ought to know, " he added, in reply to official inquiry. 

"Let us see, " exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and enteringthe room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. Arear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people onthe stairs. 

The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipesimultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignantlook at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to concealher visitor. 

"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge, " began the sous-brigadier. 

"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it isnot Monsieur Lerouge?"

"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"

"Jean Marot. "

"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while heglanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men. "Very well, --I'll take you as Jean Marot, then, " he angrily added. 

"Nevertheless, " said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am notLerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that isall. "

The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmedwith evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright. The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up, --

"Oho! now I see----"

"Dubat, shut up!"

"But, mon brigadier, " persisted the man designated, "it is not the manwe took that night at Le Petit Rouge, --non!"

"Ah! là, là, là!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "Iknow M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this isMarot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St. Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Café duPanthéon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; soit is said. "

"That is very true, " muttered the concierge, --"and I have made themistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly andhad never seen this man before, to my knowledge. "

Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sous-brigadier that atonce attracted that consequential man's attention. 

"Then, mademoiselle, " he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you cangive us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"

"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau, --en quatrième. "

M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as mucheffect upon her as water might have on a duck's back. 

Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street andnumber in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latterrose to take his departure, --

"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against MonsieurLerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"

"It is very serious, monsieur, " replied the man, respectful enoughnow; "a young woman has been blinded with vitriol. "

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I don't believe Lerouge couldhave ever done that! No, never!"

"Nor I, " said Jean. 

The police officer merely raised his eyebrows slightly and observed, --

"It was in the Rue Dareau, monsieur. "

"And the woman? Do they know----"

"One named Madeleine, mademoiselle. "

"Madeleine!" cried the girl, with a white face. "Madeleine! Mon Dieu!You hear that, Monsieur Jean? It was Madeleine!"

"Courage, mademoiselle; Lerouge never did that, " said Jean, calmly. "It is a mistake. He could not do that. "

"Never! It is impossible!"

Mlle. Fouchette wrung her hands and sought his eyes in vain for someexplanation. She seemed overcome with terror. 

"Parbleu!" exclaimed the police officer, in taking his leave. "Mademoiselle, there is nothing impossible in Paris. "

CHAPTER X

The first instinct of Jean Marot had been to kill Henri Lerouge. 

Revenge is the natural heritage of his race. Revenge is taught as asacred duty in the common schools of France. Revenge keeps the firesaglow under the boilers of French patriotism. Revenge is the firstthought to follow on the heels of private insult or personal injury. 

It had been that of the ignorant human animal called Madeleine. Howthe horrible design of Madeleine had chilled his blood! He was sorryfor the unhappy girl with a natural sympathy; yet he would have tornher to pieces had she successfully carried her scheme of revenge intoexecution. 

Jean took to haunting Montrouge day and night, invariably passing downRue Dareau and contemplating No. 7, keeping his eye on theporte-cochère and the fourth floor, as if she might be passing in orout, or show herself at a lighted window. But he never saw her, --neversaw Lerouge. He never seemed to expect to see them. 

He had ceased to attend classes. What were books and classes to himnow? He took more absinthe than was good for him. 

His father's friend, Dr. Cardiac, visited him, remonstrated with him, readily diagnosed his case, then wrote to Monsieur Marot the elder. The result of this was a peremptory call home. To this summons Jean aspromptly replied. He refused to go. An equally prompt response toldhim he had no home, --no father, --and that thenceforth he must shiftfor himself, --that he had received his last franc. 

Ten days later he unexpectedly encountered Mlle. Fouchette onBoulevard St. Michel. It was Saturday evening, and all the studentworld was abroad. But perhaps of that world none was more miserablethan Jean Marot. 

"Ah! Then it is really you, monsieur?" There was a perceptiblecoldness in her greeting. However, his condition was apparent. Thesharp blue eyes had taken his measure at a glance. She interrupted hispolite reply. 

"Là! là! là! Then you are in trouble. You young men are always introuble. When it isn't one thing it is another. "

"It is both this time, I'm afraid, " he said, smiling at the heavyphilosophy from such a light source. 

They crossed over and walked along the wall of the ancient Colleged'Harcourt, where there were fewer people. The dark circles under hishandsome eyes seemed to soften her still further. 

"I am sorry for you, monsieur. "

"Thank you, mademoiselle. "

"And poor Madeleine----"

"You have seen her, then?"

"Oh, of course!"

"Of course, " he repeated. 

"But, monsieur, you may not know that you were suspected of----"

"Go on, " seeing her hesitation. "Of having something to do with it?"

"Precisely. "

"I knew that. "

To avoid the crowd and curious comment, Jean turned into theLuxembourg garden. 

"Well, " he resumed, "you said I was suspected first by the police, then----"

"By me, " she said, promptly. 

"By you!"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"And what, my dear mademoiselle, had I done to merit so distinguishedan honor?"

"Dear me! monsieur, it was chiefly what you hadn't done; and then thecircumstantial evidence, you must confess, was strong. "

"I realized that, also that in France it is not easy to get out ofprison, once in it, innocent or guilty. "

"So you kept out. Very wisely, monsieur. But you know the papers nextmorning spoke of Madeleine's lover, and talked of the lost clue of thePlace St. Jacques, where we met. "

"It certainly would have been suspicious under some circumstances, " headmitted. "Now, if I had been her lover, for instance----"

"There! I went to the hospital. And don't you know, she would notbetray the man who did it, though she suffered horribly. She will loseone of her eyes, poor girl!"

"Great heavens! What a misfortune!"

"Yes!"

"And she would not betray her assailant?"

"Not a word!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I never believed Madeleinecould rise to that. "

"Nor I, " said Jean. 

"And the police did worry that Lerouge, " continued the girl. 

"Oh, they did?"

"Yes; but he easily proved that he was not only not Madeleine's lover, but that he was out somewhere with his--his----"

"Mistress, eh?" he said, bitterly. "Why not say it?"

"With his friend, " she added, her eyes on the ground. 

"Ugh!"

"But you, monsieur, --you have not yet told me your troubles. Your lovegoes badly, I suppose, eh?"

"Always. "

"It is the same old thing. I wonder how it is to be loved thus. Verynice, no doubt. "

"And has no one ever loved you, mademoiselle?" he asked. 

"Non!"

"You astonish me! And the world is so full of lovers, too. "

"I mean no man. "

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure, monsieur. Could one be loved like that and not know it?"

"That is what I ask myself every day. " He said this to himself ratherthan to his wondering companion. 

"Why, monsieur!----"

"But there are other things just now, --to-day, " he said, abruptlychanging the subject; "and the worst thing----"

"The worst thing is money, " she interrupted. "I have had 'the worstthing. ' It happens every now and then. You need not hesitate. "

"Worse yet, " he continued, smiling in spite of himself at herconclusion. 

"I can tell it in advance. It is the old story. Your love is notreciprocated, --you neglect your classes, --you fail in the exams, --youtake to absinthe. Ah, çà!"

"Still worse, mon enfant. "

"Ah! You play----"

"No. I never play. You are wrong only that once, mademoiselle. "

He told her the truth. And she listened with the sage air of one whoknows all about it and was ready with her decision. 

"Monsieur Marot, "--she paused a second, --"you think I'm a badgirl----"

"Oh, don't be too sure of that. I----"

"Ah, çà!" impatiently waving his politeness aside; "but I owe youmuch, and I would do you a service if possible. "

"I thank you, mademoiselle. "

"You think it impossible? Perhaps. I am nothing. I am only a poorlittle woman, monsieur, --alone in the world. But I know this world, --Ihave wrestled with it. I have had hard falls, --I got up again. Therefore my experience has been bitter; but still it is experience. "

"Sad experience, doubtless. "

"Yes; and it ought to have taught me something, even if I were themost stupid and vicious, eh?"

"Surely, " he said. 

"And my counsel ought to have some value in your eyes?"

"Why, yes; certainly, mademoiselle. "

"At least it is disinterested----"

"Sure!"

"Go home!"

"But----"

She interrupted him sharply, nervously grasping his passive hand. 

"Go home, Monsieur Jean, --at once!"

She trembled, and her voice grew low and softly sweet, and almostpleading. 

"Go home, Monsieur Jean! Leave all of this behind, --it is ruin!"

"Never! I cannot do that, mademoiselle. Besides, it is too late, --itis impossible! I have no home, now. Never!"

"There!"

Mlle. Fouchette rose abruptly, shrugging her narrow shoulders with theair of having done what she could and washing her hands of theconsequences. Her smile of half pity, half contempt, for the weaknessof a strong man clearly indicated that she had expected nothing andwas not disappointed. As he still remained absorbed in his ownmiserable thoughts, she returned to the attack in a lively manner. 

"So that is out of the way, " she said. "Now let us see what you aregoing to do. You probably have friends?"

"A few. "

"Do not trust to friends, monsieur; it will spare you the humiliationof finding them out. What are your resources?"

"I have none, " he replied. 

"How much money have you?"

"Nothing!"

"Ah, monsieur, "--she now sat down again, visibly softened, --"if youwill come and dine with me and petite Poupon we can talk it all overat leisure, n'est-ce pas? I can make a bien joli pot-au-feu for afranc, --which means soup, meat, and vegetables; and I know a petitemarchande de vins where one can get a litre of Bordeaux for cinquante, which, with a salade at two sous and cheese for two more, will roundout a very good dinner for two. Ah! le voilà!"

She wound up her rapid summary of culinary delights with the charmingeagerness of a child, bringing forth from the folds of her dress asmall purse, through the netting of which glistened some silver coin, and causing it to chink triumphantly. 

Jean Marot, suddenly lifted out of himself by this impulsivegood-nature, was at first embarrassed, then stupefied. He was unableto utter a word. He was ashamed of his own weakness; he wasoverwhelmed by the sense of her impetuous good-will and practicalhuman sympathy. He silently pressed the thin hand which hadunconsciously crept into his. 

"No, it is nothing, " she said, lightly, withdrawing her hand. "I haveplenty to-day, --you will have it some other day; and then you can giveme a petit souper, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"

"Very well. On that condition I will accept your invitation, mademoiselle. We will dine with petite Poupon. "

He had not the heart to tell her that his "nothing" meant a fewhundred francs to his credit and a few louis in his pocket at thatmoment, --more than she had ever possessed at any one time in her life. 

As it was, she walked along by his side with that feeling ofcamaraderie experienced by those in the same run of luck as to theworld's goods, and with that buoyancy of spirit which attends a goodaction. The few francs and odd sous in the little purse were abundantfor to-day, --the morrow could take care of itself. 

They turned up the narrow Rue Royer-Collard, where she stopped for thelitre of Bordeaux, responding gayly to the wayside queries andcomments. Reaching the Rue St. Jacques, there were the salad and thecheese to add to the necessary part of the French meal; and the bit ofbeef and the inevitable onions brought up the rear of purchases. 

"I have some potatoes and carrots, " she said, reflectively, --"so muchsaved. Let us see. It is not so bad, --quatre-vingt-cinq, dix, cinquante, --un franc quarante-cinq. "

She made the calculation as they went up the worn stairway after thepassage of the tunnel. 

"Not half bad, " said he, compelled to admire her cleverness. 

Reaching her chamber, she deposited the entire evening investment onthe hearth, proceeding to the preliminary features of preparation. Shethrew her hat on the bed, then pulled off the light bolero and sent itafter the hat, and then she began slipping out of her skirt bysuddenly letting it fall in a ring about her feet. 

"Oh!" said Jean. 

"Excuse me, will you? I can't risk my pretty skirt for appearances. You won't mind, monsieur? Non!"

"That's right, " he said, --"a skirt is only a skirt. "

He watched her with a half-amused expression as she flitted nervouslyabout, more doll-like than ever she was, in the short yellow silkenpetticoat with its terminating ruffles, or cheap lace balayeuse, herblonde hair loosely drooping over her ears and caught up behind in theprevailing fashion of the quarter. She kept up a continual chatter asshe opened drawers, prepared the potatoes, and arranged the littletable. 

Poupon was already singing in the chimney-place. Her conversation, byhabit, was mostly directed to her little oil-stove, as if it were asentient thing, something to be encouraged by flattery and restrainedby reproach. It was the camaraderie of loneliness. 

But to Jean, who was quick to fall back into his own reveries, hervoice died away into incomprehensible jargon. Once he glanced at thesketch still on the wall and thought of her purring over her work likea satisfied cat, then the next instant again forgot her. Now and thenshe bestowed a keen glance on him or a passing word, but left him notime to answer or to formulate any distinct idea as to what it wasabout. Suddenly she pounced upon him with, --

"Monsieur Marot?"

"Well?"

"You still live----"

"Faubourg St. Honoré. "

"Mon Dieu! How foolish!"

"Yes, --now, " he admitted. 

"You must change. What rent do you pay?"

"Fourteen hundred----"

"Dame! And the lease?"

"Two years yet to run, " said he. 

"Peste! What a bother!"

"But the rent is paid. "

"Oh, very well. It can be sold. And the furniture?"

"Mine. "

"Good! How much?"

"It cost about three thousand francs. "

"It's a fortune, monsieur, " she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Andhere I thought you were--purée!"

"Broke?"

"Yes, --that you had nothing. "

"It is not much to me, who----"

"No; I understand that. I once read of a rich American who committedsuicide because he was suddenly reduced to two hundred and fiftythousand francs. That was very drôle, was it not?"

"To most people, yes; but it would not be funny for one who had beenaccustomed to twice or five times that much every year. "

"No, --I forgot, " she said, reflectively, "about your affairs, monsieur. It is very simple. "

"Is it?" He laughed lugubriously. 

"You simply accept conditions. You give up your present mode ofliving; you sell your lease and furniture; you take a small place heresomewhere, get only what is necessary, then find something to do. Why, you will be independent, --rich!"

"Only, you omit one thing in the calculation, mademoiselle. "

She divined at once what that was. 

"One must arrange for the stomach before talking about love. And how, then, is a young man to provide for a girl when he can't provide forhimself? Let the girl alone until you begin to see the way. Don't beridiculous, Monsieur Jean. No woman can love a man who is ridiculous. Jamais!"

Love is not exactly a synonyme for Reason. To be in love is in ameasure to part company with the power of ratiocination. Nevertheless, Jean saw in an absent-minded way that Mlle. Fouchette, for whom he hadnever entertained even that casual respect accorded by the Anglo-Saxonto womanhood in general, spoke the words of sense and soberness. Hisintolerant nature, that would never have brooked such freedom from afriend, allowed everything from one who was too insignificant toexcite resentment or even reply. In the same fashion Jean was touchedby the exhibition of human interest and womanly sympathy in this waifof civilization. And he was of too gentle a heart not to meet it witha show of appreciation. It gave her pleasure and did not hurt him. Thefact that she was probably abandoned and vicious in no wise lessenedthis consideration, --possibly increased his confidence in herdisinterested counsel. 

In Paris one elbows this species every day, --in the Quartier Latinyoung Frenchmen come in contact with it every night, --and without thatsense of self-abasement or disgust evoked by similar association inthe United States. The line of demarcation that separatesrespectability from shame is not rigidly drawn in Paris; in theQuartier Latin, where the youth of France and, to a considerableextent, of the whole world are prepared for earth and heaven, itcannot be said to be drawn at all. 

By his misfortunes Jean Marot had unexpectedly fallen within herreach. With her natural spirit of domination she had at onceappropriated the position of mentor and manager. The precociousworldliness of her mentality amused while it sometimes astonished him. This comparatively ignorant girl of eighteen had no hesitation inguiding the man of more mature years, and succeeded through hernaïveté rather than by force of character. The weakest of women candominate the strongest of men. 

"Doctors never prescribe for themselves, " she said, by way ofjustifying her interest in him. "Is it not so, Monsieur Jean?"

"No; but they call in somebody of their own profession, " he replied. 

"Not if he had the same disease, surely!" she retorted. 

"So you think love a disease?" he laughingly asked. 

"Virulent, but not catching, " said she, helping him to some soup. 

There were no soup-plates and she had dipped it from the pot with ateacup and served it in a bowl; but the soup was just as good and wasrich with vegetable nutrition. He showed his appreciation by avigorous onslaught. 

"And if it were a disease and catching?" he remarked presently. 

"Then you would not be here, " she replied. "You see, I'd run too muchrisk. As it is--have some more wine?--But who understands love betterthan a woman, monsieur?"

"Oh, I surrender, mademoiselle, --that is, provided she has loved andloves no longer. "

"Been sick and been cured, eh?" she suggested. "But that is more thanyou require of the medical profession. "

"True----"

He paused and listened. She turned her head at the same moment. Therewere two distinct raps on the wall. He had heard, vaguely, the soundof persons coming and going next door; had distinguished voices in thenext flat. There was nothing strange about that. But the knock was theknock of design and at once arrested his attention. 

The young girl started to her feet, her finger on her lips. 

"He wants me, " she said. 

"That is evident, whoever 'he' may be, " replied Jean, significantly. 

"Oh, it is only Monsieur de Beauchamp. A sitting, perhaps, " she added. 

She slipped out of the room without deeming it necessary to resume heroverskirt. The feminine inhabitants of Rue St. Jacques were soextremely unconventional, --they not infrequently went down into thestreet for rolls and other articles attired in this charming negligéeof the bedroom boudoir. And would, perhaps, have extended thisunconventionality to the neighboring cafés, only the proprietaireshad to draw a line somewhere, and had unanimously drawn it at hatsand skirts, or full street dress. 

Jean began to think himself entirely deserted, when Mlle. Fouchetteburst rather than walked into the room conducting her next-doorneighbor. 

Jean saw before him a man scarcely older than himself, rather spare offigure and pale of face, in the garb of a provincial and with an airof the Jesuit enthusiast rather than the student of art. His long, dark hair was thick and bushy and worn trimmed straight around theneck after the fashion of Jeanne d'Arc's time. It completely hid hisears and fell in sprays over his temples. His face was the typicalChrist of the old masters, the effect being heightened by the soft, fine, virgin beard and moustache of somewhat fairer color, and by themelancholy eyes, dark and luminous, with their curled and droopinglashes. These eyes gave rather a suggestion of sadness and inwardsuffering, but when animated seemed to glow with the smouldering fireof centuries. 

"Pardon, Monsieur de Beauchamp, " said Jean, upon being introduced tohim, "but mademoiselle appears to have forgotten me for art. "

"Ah! and as if there were no art in making a salad!" exclaimed thepainter, as he shook hands with the other. 

"Oh! là, là, là!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, wresting the dish from Jean'sgrasp; "there would be precious little art in this if you made it!"And she proceeded with the salad on her own account, using the twobowls that had but recently served them for soup. 

Monsieur de Beauchamp and Jean discussed the student "manifestations"planned for the next day. The Dreyfusardes--a term by which all whodiffered from the military régime were known--had announced a publicmeeting, and a counter-demonstration had been called to not onlyprevent that meeting but to publicly chastise such as dared to takepart in it. 

No attempt was made to conceal these patriotic intentions from thepolice. The walls blazed with flaming revolutionary posters. Theportrait of the Duc d'Orléans appeared over specious promises in caseof Restoration. The Royal Claimant was said to be concealed in Paris. At any rate, his agents were busy. They were in league with theBonapartists, the Socialists, the Anti-Semites, against the thingsthat were, and called the combination Nationalists. They were reallyOpportunists. The republic overthrown, they agreed to fight out theirrival claims to power between themselves. 

The unfortunate Jew merely served them as a weapon. They were the realtraitors to their country. With the most fulsome adulation and the Jewthey courted the army and sought to lead it against the republic. 

And the republic, --poor, weak, headless combination ofinconsistencies, --through a tricky and vacillating Ministry and abitter, factional Parliament, greatly encouraged the idea of any sortof a change. 

Popular intolerance had, after a farcical civil trial overawed bymilitary authority, driven the foremost writer of France into exile, as it had Voltaire and Rousseau and many thousands of the best bloodof the French before him. 

The many noble monuments of the Paris carrefours, representing theélite of France, the heroes, the apostles of letters and liberty, whowere murdered, exiled, denied Christian burial or dragged through thestreets after death by Frenchmen, stand morally united in one grandmonumental fane commemorative of French intolerance. 

Wherever is reared a monument to French personal worth, there also isa mute testimonial of collective French infamy. 

"Dans la rue!" was now the battle-cry. 

All of these student "manifestations" were seized upon by the worstelements of Paris. The estimable character of these elements found inthe Place Maubert and vicinity may be surmised from the fact that afew days previous to the event about to be herein recorded twenty menof the neighborhood were chosen to maintain its superiority to theHalles Centrales against a like number selected by the latter. 

The contending factions were drawn up in order of battle in PlaceMaubert, on Boulevard St. Germain, in broad afternoon, each man beingarmed with a knife, and precipitated an engagement that required onehundred police reserves to quell. 

"If we could only keep that pestiferous gang out of ourmanifestations, " said Jean now to Monsieur de Beauchamp, --"theydisgrace us always!"

"Oh, but they are good fighters; and there is to be fighting prettysoon, " observed the artist. 

"Vive l'armée!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, flourishing a salad-spoon. Mlle. Fouchette had a martial spirit. 

"Whenever a student is arrested he turns out to be one of the roughsof Place Maubert or a hoodlum of Rue Monge, or a cutthroat of RueMouffetard. It is disgraceful!"

"But it shows the discretion of our police, Monsieur Marot, " said theartist, with his sweet smile. "You see the police are with us. We mustnot be too particular who fights on our side, my friend. We can'tafford to quarrel with anybody just now going in our direction. Theyare but means to an end, let us remember, and that end the ancientprestige and glory of France. "

"À bas les Juifs!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, without looking up. 

The godlike face of the painter glowed with the enthusiasm thatconsumed his soul. He now turned his grand eyes upon the girl withinexpressible sadness. 

"That is a question that does not concern us, " said he, "except asanother means to an end. Innocent or guilty, shall the pleasure orpain of one man stand between the millions of our countrymen and thewelfare and perpetuity of France?"

"Never!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, in her excitement bringing down thesalad-bowl with a crash that sent the pieces flying about the room. 

"Parbleu!" exclaimed Jean, laughing heartily; "there goes my salad!"

"No; the salad is here. There goes my pretty bowl!"

"Very well, then, let us turn out to-morrow, Monsieur Marot, and doour duty. Au revoir. "

In parting the artist nodded his head in cold recognition of theexistence of Mlle. Fouchette. The latter turned on her dainty heelwith a glance at Jean that spoke volumes. But she began arranging thelittle table slowly, absent-mindedly, without a word. He thought shewas lamenting the loss of the salad-bowl. 

"I'll buy you a pretty one, " he said. 

"A pretty--er--a what?"

"Salad-bowl. "

"Oh, dame! I was not thinking of the salad-bowl. "

"Something more serious?"

"Yes. Don't go to-morrow, Monsieur Jean!"

Her voice was earnest, but sunk to a whisper. He regarded her withastonishment. 

"Don't go, Monsieur Jean!" she repeated. "Have nothing to do withthem! There will be two thousand hired roughs from La Villette, thekillers from the abattoirs, and----" She stopped short. 

"How now, mon enfant? How----"

But she had clapped her small hand over his mouth in a half-vexed, half-frightened way, with a definite gesture towards the next room. 

"Have a care, monsieur, " she whispered in his ear, then laughinglyresumed her bantering tone. "How do you like my salad? Is it notcapital?"

CHAPTER XI

Jean Marot found Mlle. Fouchette interesting but incomprehensible. 

Jean believed himself to be a sincere and true republican, --and hewas, in fact, quite as logical in this as were many of the so-calledrepublicans of the French Parliament, who, like their familiarpolitical prototypes in the United States, talked one way and votedanother. He had participated in the street disturbances as a protestagainst the Ministry and for the pure love of excitement, not againstthe republic. 

As to the Dreyfus case, he had been satisfied, with most of hiscountrymen, upon the statement of five successive ministers of war. 

After all, in a country where so many have always stood ready to selltheir national liberty for the gold of the stranger, it came easy tobelieve in one Judas more. 

The United States has had but one Benedict Arnold; France counts hertraitors by the thousands. They spring from every rank and areincidental to every age. The word Treachery is the most important wordin French domestic history. 

And when honest men doubted the justice of a council of war, they weresilenced by the specious reasoning of men like M. De Beauchamp. HadJean been invited to assist in overturning the republic and to putPhilippe d'Orléans on the throne, he would have revolted. Hispolitical ideals would have been outraged. Yet every act committed byhim and by his blind partisans tended directly, and were secretlyengineered by others, to that end. 

Jean Marot in this was but a fair type of tens of thousands of hisintelligent but headstrong and misguided countrymen. 

"In the street!"

Once in the street the following day, Jean forgot his seriousreflections of the previous night. It was Sunday, the chosen day ofbattle by sea and land, --a day consecrated to violence and bloodshedby the Paris mob. The students gathered at the divided rendezvous ofthe Place Panthéon and the Place de l'Odéon. Many of them wore thewhite boutonniére of the Jeunesse Royalistes, the tricolor, the redrose of communism, or other badge of particular political belief, andall carried canes, some of which were loaded and some of the swordvariety. Their leaders excitedly harangued them while the heavy squadsof police agents distributed in the vicinity watched the proceedingswithout interference. 

Indeed, the royalists and their allies had abundant reason to believethe police force of Paris, officers and men, civil and military, insympathy with their movement against the republic. Not one of the manystreet disturbances of the year past had been the spontaneous outburstof popular anger that is the forerunner of revolution. On everyoccasion they had been, as they were in this instance, the publiclyprearranged breaches of the peace in which the worst elements of theParis world were invited or hired to join. This was well known to thegovernment. It would have been easy and perfectly legal and wise tohave anticipated them by governmental authority. Acting under thatauthority, a score or two of police agents could have dispersed allpreliminary gatherings. Under the eye of such a police force as wehave in New York any one of the numerous riots which disgraced thestreets of Paris during the pendency of the "Affaire" would have beenimpossible. 

The police of Paris, however, are French, --which is to say that theyare incapable of seeing their duty from a strictly impersonal point ofview, but are lax to the utmost indifference and partiality or brutalto the extreme of cruelty and fiendishness. 

But perhaps the severest censure of the Paris police agent lies in thefact that no just magistrate accepts his unsupported testimony, andthat at least two-thirds of his riot arrests are nullified at once bysetting the victims at liberty. As the police agent is the creature ofthe general government and is not responsible to the municipality, hecan only be brought to book when he makes the mistake of offendingsome high personage. To the complaint of an ordinary citizen he wouldprobably reply by drawing his cloak around him and expectoratingviciously. 

"Qu'est-ce que ça me fiche?"

The students assembled at the Place du Panthéon easily avoided theshadowy blue barrier drawn up across the Rue Soufflot. They howled agood deal in unison, then suddenly disappeared down Rue Cujas, and, pouring into Boulevard St. Michel, joined forces at the foot of RueRacine with their comrades from the Place de l'Odéon. Like all studentmanifestations of any sort, the procession made a great noise, stickswere brandished, and the air rent with cries of "Vive l'armée! À basles traitres!"

The peaceful shopkeepers came to their doors and regarded the youngmen indulgently. "Ah! la jeunesse n'a q'un temps!"

Some four hundred young men from the great schools were joined at thePlace St. Michel by numerous hoodlums and roughs from the purlieus ofRue St. Severin, Place Maubert, and the equally delectable region ofRue de la Hutchette. These patriot soldiers of fortune "émeuted" forthe low rate of forty sous per day, and were mostly armed withbludgeons, wherewith to earn their meagre salary. It mattered littlewhom they served, though it was just now the noble Duc d'Orléans. 

The police saw this addition with a knowing eye. They barred theentrance to the Pont St. Michel. It was a half-hearted effort, andwith cries of "Vive la liberté!" "En avant!" the mob of young menswept the thin files out of the way and gained the bridge. Not, however, without some kicks and blows, broken canes, and bleedingfaces. A lusty gold-laced brigadier rolled in the dust, desperatelyclinging to two coat-collars, and won the coveted cross by allowinghimself to be kicked and stamped almost out of human resemblance bythe infuriated mob of rescuers. 

By this time the head of the mob had reached the other end of thebridge, where a double barrier of agents was drawn up across thestreet. A gray-haired commissaire of long and distinguished policeservice walked calmly forward alone to meet them. His resolute step, his pose, bespoke his dignity and courage. He raised his left handwith the air of authority accustomed to being obeyed. 

His keen eyes at once sought and found and held the eyes of theleaders. 

"You must go back, --you cannot cross here, --you must disperse----"

"Sacré!" growled the crowd, moving forward threateningly. "We have aright to cross anywhere! We are citizens of Paris and have the rightsof any other citizen, --the same as you, Monsieur le Commissaire!"

A dozen such protests on the instant. But the wily veteran was ready. He knew that when a mob stops to parley the battle is half won. 

"Oh, yes, messieurs, --singly, or as other good citizens, you areright; but not as----"

A young man reached over his comrades' shoulders and struck the oldcommissaire in the face with his cane. 

"For shame!" cried Jean Marot, indignantly. "What foolishness!" And hebroke the cane across his knee and threw the fragments to the ground. 

In the same moment the old commissaire dashed into the crowd andsingle-handed dragged his youthful assailant to the front and clear ofhis companions. 

"The guard! the guard! Look out, comrades! here comes the guard!"

The cry ran along the line and through the ranks hushed by the wantonblow delivered unnecessarily upon a respected official. A company ofthe Garde Républicaine à pied had filed out across the Boulevard duPalais from behind the Préfecture; another company à cheval debouchedinto the quai from the other corner, and now rode slowly down towardsthe bridge. 

"Bayonets in front and sabres on the flank!" said Jean to those aroundhim. "It were wise to get out of this. "

"Good advice, young man, --get out! It won't do, you see. You mustcross singly, or as other citizens. Never mind your hot-headed youngfriend, " added the old man, kindly, as he wiped the blood from hisface. "We won't be hard on him. Only, you must go back at once!"

He talked to them as if they were little children. But they needed nofurther urging. The rear-guard had already turned tail at the sight ofthe troops and were in full retreat. Before the last man had clearedthe bridge the only one who had been arrested was set at liberty, though he had richly earned six months in jail. 

And thus terminated the harebrained attempt to march five hundredriotous men through the city directly in front of the Préfecture, where lay unlimited reserves, civil and military, under arms. Theroyalists had somewhat overstrained the complaisance of theauthorities. 

Acting at once on the hint of the police official, the crowd broke upinto small groups. "À la Concorde! À la Concorde! Concorde!" theycried. 

This revolutionary rendezvous was prearranged to mean Place duCarrousel, conditional on police interference. It was to deceive theauthorities, the main object being to form a junction with theanticipated hordes from Montmartre and La Villette. 

But a mob broken into scattered groups is no longer a mob, and beingno longer a mob, there is no longer courage or cohesion of purpose. Instead of some four hundred students and about a hundred roughs, notmore than fifty of the former responded at the foot of the Gambettamonument, while the latter class had gathered strength by the way. 

This discrepancy, though painfully apparent to Jean Marot and hisfriends, in no wise dampened their ardor. Their chosen speakers lashedthem into fresh furors of patriotism while they waited. The eloquentyoung man who quoted the words of Gambetta engraved on his monumentwrung tears from his sympathetic auditors. These words of wisdom andpatriotism had no pertinence whatever to the work in hand, --which wasto break up a meeting organized by some distinguished philanthropists, scholars, and their friends in the interests of civil liberty and theperpetuity of human rights, --but everything serves as fuel to a flamewell started. 

Carried away by the spirit of exaltation, Jean Marot clambered uponthe monument itself, and ascending the heroic figure of Gambetta amidthe wild plaudits of the mob, kissed the mute stone lips. His hat hadfallen to the ground, and now the hysterical crowd tore it into bitsand scrambled for the pieces, which they pinned on their breasts asprecious souvenirs of the occasion. 

When Jean reached the earth it was to be frantically embraced on everyside. A great, broad-shouldered, big-bearded man in a cap and theblouse of the artisan crowned this exciting ceremony by kissing theyoung student full on the mouth. 

A score of hats were tendered, but Jean accepted the cap of thestalwart workman, who immediately brandished his club and shouted "Enavant!" He unwound his soiled red sash as he started, and, making itdeftly into a sort of turban, constituted himself Jean's specialbody-guard for the day. 

The strong force of police posted in the neighborhood of the Louvrehad regarded this street drama with stoical indifference. When thenoisy crowd surged into the Rue de Rivoli it passed between themounted videttes of the Garde Républicaine. Farther on, in the Rue St. Honoré, a squad of dismounted cuirassiers stood listlessly holding thebridles of their horses. The afternoon sun flashed electric rays fromthe plates of burnished steel. 

"Vive l'armée!" burst from the mob. 

A subaltern on the curb touched his glittering casque in militarysalute without stirring a muscle of his armored body. 

Now recognized leader, Jean directed the march up the narrow Rue deRichelieu, observing to his bearded aide that it was more direct andsafe, though shouts of "Avenue de l'Opéra! l'Opéra!" rose from hisfollowers. Jean paid no attention to these cries. 

"You are right, my boy!" said the man in the blouse, patting Jean onthe shoulder approvingly. "The broad streets are to the agents andmilitary. The cuirassiers can there trample men like flies! Ah! with aregiment of cavalry and a battery of three quick-firers one could holdParis at the Place de l'Opéra against the world!"

"Yes, my friend, " answered Jean, with a smile, "always provided theworld agreed not to drop thousand-pound melinite shells on one fromMont Valérien or Montmartre, or from some other place. "

"Yes, yes, yes, --you are right, my boy, " admitted the other. "Enavant!"

This man had the voice of a Stentor. He was also a Hercules ofstrength. Here and there the narrow street seemed blocked withvehicles; but when he did not terrorize the drivers into immediateflight at the sound of his voice and the sight of his club he wouldcalmly lift the encumbrance and set it to one side. 

"En avant!" he would then roar. 

Where possible, however, all vehicles promptly fled the street savethe omnibuses. From the imperiale of one of these came the cry, --

"Vive la république!"

"Vive l'armée!" yelled the mob. 

"Vive la république!" came the response. 

A dash was made for the omnibus. While four or five men held thehorses a dozen or more clambered over the wheels and up the narrowsteps behind. There were sixteen persons on top, seven of whom werewomen. The latter shrieked. Two fainted away. The assailants sprangupon the men and demanded the one who had dared to consider the healthof the republic without the army. No one could or would point him out. On the apparently well established French principle that it is betterthat ten innocent should suffer punishment rather than that one guiltyperson should escape the patriotic young men assaulted everybody. Awhite-haired old man who protested was slapped in the face, anotherman was quieted by a brutal kick in the abdomen that doubled him up, a couple of foreigners who could neither understand the language norcomprehend what it was all about were roughly handled, a half-grownboy was cuffed, --everybody but the driver came in for blows andinsults; and this driver of the omnibus was in all probability thereal villain. 

"En avant!"

This lesson was administered en route, and without stopping the mainbody of manifestants pressed on into the grand boulevard, to beswallowed up in the resistless human current that now flowed down uponthe Place de l'Opéra. 

CHAPTER XII

A formidable proportion of the grand concourse which filled thefashionable boulevards from curb to curb this beautiful Sundayafternoon was composed of the so-called "boulevardiers, " "flâneurs, "and "badauds, " who invariably appear on occasion offering excitement. For the Parisian world loves to be amused, and to have the pulsequickened by riot and bloodshed is to very many the highest form ofamusement. It is better than a bull-fight. 

To most of this very large class of Parisians it is immaterial whatform of government they live under, provided that in some way oranother it furnish plenty of excitement. No other country in thecivilized world, unless Spain is to be included under this head, produces this peculiar class, the unseen influence of which seems tohave escaped the brilliant French writers who have recorded theturbulent history of France. 

The cardinal characteristic of the French individually and as a peopleis love of and admiration for theatrical display. This finds suchample illustration in all of their known domestic as well asinternational affairs that even the mere statement seems unnecessary. It permeates every social rank, and it enters into the performance ofthe simplest private as well as public duties. In higher governmentalaffairs it was accurately represented by the late President of therepublic, Felix Faure, who went among his countrymen in a coach andfour preceded by trumpeters and accompanied by a regiment ofcuirassiers, and who required of his entourage all of the formalitiesof royalty. The hundreds of thousands who enjoyed his kingly funeralwould have been equally entertained by a public execution. 

In the French nature, as has been said, is implanted a keen zest forexcitement. The Frenchman is ravenous for the theatrical situation, --aperfect gormandizer of the dramatic event. Whatever or whoever lacksthis gilded framework is neither remembered nor noted. The supplyinvariably follows the demand; without spectators there would be nospectacle, --just as there is no sound where there are no ears. 

Any Frenchman, therefore, who has any theatrical novelty to offer, whether as a political mountebank, or a bogus hero, or a peculiarlyatrocious crime, is sure of a large audience. For there is a widerange of appreciation in that mercurial nature which, according toVoltaire, is half monkey and half tiger. 

The evident pleasure with which vast Parisian crowds view riots andrevolution and the various phases of alternate anarchy and absolutismmay be easily and naturally accepted by the actors in these livingdramas as tacit if not positive approval. The professional patriotdoes not perform to empty seats, and the few hundred hired assassinsof the public peace and private liberty would be out of a job but forthe hundred thousand passive and more or less amused spectators whoscramble for the best places to witness and make merry over the show. 

That this curious crowd is greatly swelled by what in other lands isrecognized as the gentler or softer sex increases its responsibility. The civilization which has produced so many women of the heroic type, so many of the nobler masculine brain and hand, has also generated avast brood which poisons the germs of human life and hands downbigotry, intolerance, revengefulness, cruelty, and love of turbulenceand bloodshed from generation to generation. 

Of the performers before this audience Jean Marot and his stalwartcompanion found themselves particularly observed from their début. Thered turban was conspicuous enough, and gave a theatrical aspect to theman who wore it. There was that in his ensemble which recalled thegreat Revolution and the scarcely less sanguinary conflicts of '71. Byhis side and contrasting strangely with the coarse brute features ofthis muscular humanity was the finely chiselled face of the studentunder the rough cap of the workman. A picturesque pair, they weregreeted on all sides with all sorts of cries and comments:

"That red cap is very appropriate. "

"It is the head-dress of the barricades. "

"Sure!"

"Of la Villette, hein?"

"The man is mad!"

"Ah! look at that!"

"There goes a good rascal. "

"A young man and his father perhaps. "

"No!"

"Long live the students!"

"En avant!" roared the man in the red turban. 

"Vive l'anarchie!" shouted an individual on the curb whose eyes wereglazed from absinthe. 

The crowd laughed. Some applauded, --not so much the sentiment as thedrunken wit. The people were being entertained. 

"We certainly have the street this day, " observed Jean to hiscompanion. 

"Right you are, my boy!"

Both noted the squadron of cuirassiers drawn up in front of the Opéra, the police agents massed on either side, and the regiment of the lineunder arms in the Rue 4 Septembre close at hand. In the middledistance a squadron of the Garde de Paris came leisurely up the Avenuede l'Opéra. 

"You see, my friend, " said Jean, smiling, "the government is lookingsharply after its strategic position. "

"Vive l'armée!"

The man in the red turban swung his bâton, and his resounding cry wascaught up by the manifestants. It was the voice of flattery andconciliation extended to the army, through which the royalist partyhoped to win a throne. 

But they were not alone there. From several quarters came sharprejoinders of "Vive la justice!" "Vive la république!" "Vive laFrance!"

While these cries seemed harmless if not proper, they were judgedseditious by the police, who made a dash for those who uttered them. In another instant the man with the red turban would have saved theagents the trouble of arresting the nearest person had not Jeangrasped the bâton. The brute face had taken on a flush of redferocity. His blow restrained, the man spat in the face of hisintended victim and strode on. 

"Not yet, my friend!" exclaimed the student leader. "What! precipitatea fight here! Madness! We should be ridden down within three minutes!The government will be sure to protect the Opéra. "

"Yes; you are always right, mon enfant, " growled the man. 

Meanwhile, the unfortunate Parisian who wanted "justice" got it; beingdragged off by two police agents, who took turns in kicking andcuffing their prisoner on the way to the dépôt. There he was chargedwith uttering seditious cries calculated to lead to a breach of thepeace. 

Gathering confidence from immunity, however, the manifestants soonceased to observe this respect for public opinion. In BoulevardHaussmann they got out from the eye of the military. They began tohustle those who happened to get in their way. Those who were notsufficiently explicit in their views were compelled to cry "Vivel'armée;" whoever refused was promptly knocked on the head. 

"Monsieur Front de Boeuf, " said Jean Marot to his companion, who hadnarrowly missed spattering the young leader with the brains of amisguided Dreyfusarde, "if you will strike less heavily you willlonger remain with us, and possibly for a time escape the guillotine. Let us do no murder, mon ami. Your stick is heavy. "

"That's so; but it is a lovely stick all the same, " replied the man, with a satisfied air, as he wiped the blood from his hands upon hisblouse. 

Then for the first time Jean noticed that this blouse bore many oldstains of the same sanguinary color. Undoubtedly it was blood. Human?Faugh!

Jean saw around him other men of the same type, red-faced andstrong-limbed, mentally as well as physically saturated with thebrutality of their calling. He thought of Mlle. Fouchette. It wastrue, then, that these human brutes from the abattoirs were here. Thatother type, the "camelot, "--he of the callous, cadaverous face, thinlyclad body, cunning eyes, husky lungs, --was more familiar. 

But these butchers of La Villette, why were they royalists? Whatspecial interest had the killers of cattle in the restoration of themonarchy? They had emphasized their devotion to the Duc d'Orléans byre-electing his parliamentary leader, the Comte de Sabran, by anoverwhelming vote. From the rich and influential wholesaler to the lowhind whose twelve hours a day were passed in knocking bullocks on thehead or in slitting throats with precision the butchers stood three toone for the royal régime. Men may be hired for certain services, butin such a case as this there must exist some natural sentiment atbottom. This sentiment was perhaps only the common French intoleranceof existing things. 

Jean Marot's train of thought had not reached that far, owing to freshdifferences of opinion between some of his followers and thespectators, in which it became necessary for a dozen men to kick onehelpless fellow-man into insensibility. 

They were now nearing the proposed place of meeting, and the hithertoscattered cries of "Vive la justice!" "Vive la liberté!" "Vive laFrance!" and "Vive la république!" had developed into well-definedopposition. Personal collisions, blows, objurgations, came thicker andfaster. 

Finally, from the "terrasse" of a fashionable café in the BoulevardMalesherbes came very decided expressions of dissent. They werefollowed by a general assault on the place. Not less than thirty ofthe usual respectable Sunday afternoon "consommateurs" occupied thechairs, and, though not more than half a dozen of these could haveoffended, the mob came down upon them like a living avalanche, throwing the entire Sunday party of both sexes promiscuously among thedébris of tables, chairs, glasses, and drinks. 

The women shrieked, the men cursed loudly, and everybody struggled inthe general wreck. While the male portion were kicked and stampedwhere they lay, the feminine part of the café crowd fought tooth andnail to escape in any direction. 

There were three dissatisfied beings, however, who objected to thissummary treatment, and who, having regained a footing, courageouslydefended themselves with the nearest weapons at hand. These were emptybeer-glasses, which, being fraudulently double thick at the bottom, were admirably designed for that particular use. But when threebeer-glasses conflict with twenty loaded canes the former, howevervaliantly wielded, must succumb to the rule of the majority. Among thelatter, too, was the particularly heavy stick of the patriot from theabattoirs of La Villette. He had received a blow from a glass thatlaid his cheek open and had jumped upon his assailant. 

"Death!" he roared. 

The man sank without a groan amid the broken glass, beer, and blood. The savage aimed a terrific blow of the boot at the upturned face, but was jostled out of his aim. Again, and with the snarl of a wildbeast; but a woman had thrown herself across the prostrate figure andencircled the still form with her protecting arm. The butcher wouldhave planted his iron-shod heel upon her, but at this criticaljuncture another woman--a slender, pale, weak-looking thing whoseblonde hair fell loosely over her rouged cheeks--flew at him with ascream half human, half feline, --such as chills the blood in themidnight of the forest. With one hand she tore out great bunches ofbeard by the roots, with the other she left red furrows on his facelike the paths of a garden-rake. Quick as lightning-flashes, again andagain, and with each successive stroke of her claws came the low, hysterical whine of the wild beast. 

It was Mlle. Fouchette. 

Her catlike jaws were distended and quivering, --the white teethglistened, --the eyes of steel seemed to emit sparks of fire, --thesmall, lithe body swayed and undulated like that of an angry puma. 

"Yes!--so!--death!--yes!--death!--you!--beast!--you devil!"

With each energetic word went a wild sweep of the claws or came a wispof beard. 

The man bellowed with pain. The unexpected fury of her onslaught, thegeneral mêlée of close quarters, the instinct of protection, contributed to prevent the man from simply braining her with his"casse-tête. " He was a lion against a hornet, powerless to punish hispuny assailant. As he finally broke away, she suddenly whirled anddelivered beneath the arm that shielded his eyes a kick that halfchoked him with his own teeth. 

Blinded with blood and howling with pain, the wretch plunged headlongthrough the café front amid a crash of falling glass. 

In the mean time, while this little curtain-raiser had been gettingunder way, there was still another and more important drama in activepreparation. 

The police, as if to lend such material aid to the royalist cause aslay in their power, and to assist in the punishment of those misguidedFrenchmen who took the words "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, " inscribedover the doors of the public hall, in a too literal sense, hadviolently closed those doors against the latter and by cunninglyarranged barriers driven the unsuspecting Dreyfusardes down upon theirarmed enemies. It was a most admirably arranged plot to destroy thepublic peace, and reflected credit upon the clerico-royalist-militarycouncil that had planned it. 

Before the indignant republicans had begun to realize the character ofthe trap set for them they found themselves hemmed in on three sidesby the police and attacked by the combination of hostile forces on theother side. 

The latter had been quietly assembled in the vicinity in anticipationof this dénouement. They were led by Senators and Deputies wearing theofficial scarf of their high legislative function. This at onceafforded the latter reasonable immunity from arrest, and served toencourage and assure those accustomed to look for some shadow ofauthority to conceal or excuse the evil of their deeds. 

The French Senator or Deputy who leads street rioters against apeaceable assemblage of his fellow-citizens one day and serenely sitsin national legislative deliberation the next day is the faithfulrepresentative of a constituency as far removed from the American typeof citizenship as the French legislator is from our nationallegislator. 

With shouts of "Vive l'armée!" "À bas les vendus!" "Vive France auxFrançais!" "À bas les Juifs!" the waiting combination, or"nationalistes, " fell upon their victims with fist, heel, and club. This was not as a body, the assailants being cleverly scatteredeverywhere through the crowd, and assaulting individually andsupporting each other where resistance was encountered. As many weremere spectators, they were compelled to declare themselves or come infor a share of the drubbing, though this opportunity for escape wasnot always offered or accepted. 

The pure love of fighting is strong in the French as in the Irishbreast, and once roused the Frenchman is not too particular whose headcomes beneath his bâton. 

It naturally happened, therefore, that on this occasion the innocentcurious of all opinions received impartial treatment, often withoutknowing to which side they were indebted for their thumping. Every manthus assaulted at once became a rioter and began the work on his ownparticular account. Within a brief period not less than a hundredpersonal combats were going on at the same moment. As far as the eyecould reach the broad boulevard was a surging sea of scufflinghumanity, above which rose a cloud of dust and a continuous roar ofangry voices. To the distant ear this was as one voice, --that ofterrible imprecation. 

Having thus ingeniously united the conflicting currents in onetempest, the police precipitated themselves on the whole. 

Had any additional element been required to bring things to thehighest stage of combativeness this would have answered quite well. Asinterference in family affairs almost invariably brings the wrath ofboth parties down on the peacemaker, so now the police began toreceive their share of the public attention. 

The Parisian population have not that docile disposition andsubmissive respect for authority characteristic of our Americans. Theabsence of the night-stick and ready revolver must be supplied byoverwhelming physical force. Even escaping criminals cannot be shotdown in France with impunity. 

Though deprived of both clubs and sabres and not trusted withrevolvers, these police agents make good use of hands and feet. Notbeing bound by the rules of the ring, their favorite blow is the blowbelow the belt. It is viciously administered by both foot and knee. Next to that is the kick on the shins, which, delivered by a heavy, iron-shod cowhide boot, is pretty apt to render the recipient hors decombat. Supplemented by a quick fist and directed by a quicker temper, the French police agent is no mean antagonist in a general row. Inbrutality and impulsive cruelty he is but the flesh and blood ofthose with whom he has mostly to deal. 

The battle now raged with increasing violence, the combatants beingslowly driven down upon the approaching manifestants from the QuartierLatin, Montmartre, and La Villette. It had become everybody's fight, the original Dreyfusardes having been largely eliminated bynationaliste clubs and police arrests. The ambulances and cellularvans, playfully termed "salad-baskets, " thoughtfully stationed in theside streets, were being rapidly filled, and as fast as filled weredriven to hospital and prison respectively. 

The reverberating roar of human voices beat against the tallbuildings, rising and falling in frightful diapason, as if it were theecho from a thousand savage creatures of the jungle clashing theirfangs in deadly combat. 

Jean Marot and his immediate followers had scarcely turned from thescene at the café before they were swallowed up in the vortex that nowmet them. Indeed, Jean had not witnessed either the horrible brutalityof the butcher or his punishment. The cries of "Les agents! à bas lesagents!" had suddenly carried him elsewhere on the field of battle. Hefound himself, fired by the fever of conflict, in the middle of thebroad street so closely surrounded by friends and foes that stickswere encumbrances. A short arm blow only was now and then effective. Adozen police agents were underfoot somewhere, being pitilessly stampedand trampled by the frantic mob. The platoon that had charged waswiped out as a platoon. Those who were hemmed in fought like demons. Men throttled each other and swayed back and forth and yelledimprecations and fell in struggling masses and got upon their feetagain and twisted and squirmed and panted, like so many monsters, halfserpent and half beast, seeking to bury their fangs in some vital partor tear each other limb from limb. 

Suddenly Jean saw rise before him a face that drove everything elsefrom his mind. It was that of one who saw him at the same instant. Andwhen these bloodshot eyes of passion met a fierce yell of wrath burstfrom the two men. 

It was Henri Lerouge. 

He was hatless and his clothes were in shreds and covered with thegrime of the street. His hair was matted with coagulated blood, --hislips were swollen hideously. A police agent in about the samecondition held him by the throat. 

When Henri Lerouge saw Jean Marot he seemed imbued with the strengthof a giant and the agility of a cat. He shook off the grip of theagent as if it were that of a child and at a bound cleared thestruggling group that separated him from his former friend. 

They grappled without a word and without a blow, and, linked in theembrace of mortal hatred, rolled together in the dust. 

The cruel human waves broke over them and rolled on and receded, andwent and came again, and eddied and seethed and roared above them. 

These two rose no more. 

CHAPTER XIII

When the police, supported by the Garde de Paris, had finally sweptthe boulevard clear of the mob, they found among the human débris twomen locked in each other's grasp, insensible. The imprint on twothroats showed with what desperate ferocity they had clung to eachother. Indeed, their hands were scarcely yet relaxed from exhaustion. Their faces were black and their tongues protruded. 

In the nearest pharmacy, where ambulances were being awaited by adozen others, Jean Marot quickly revived under treatment. The case ofHenri Lerouge, however, was more serious. He had received a severe cutin the head early in the row and the young surgeon in charge fearedinternal injuries. Artificial means were required to inducerespiration. This was restored slowly and laboriously. At the firstsign of life he murmured, --

"Andrée! Sister! Ah! my poor little sister!"

Jean roused himself. The sounds of voices and wheels came to himindistinctly. Everything merged in these words, --

"Andrée! Sister!"

Then again all was blank. 

When he revived he was first of all conscious of a gentle femininetouch, --that subtle something which cools the fevered veins andsoftens the pangs of suffering, mind and body. 

He felt it rather as if it were a dream, and kept his eyes closed forfear the dream would vanish. The hand softly bathed his head, whichconsciously lay in a woman's lap. He remembered but one hand--hismother's--that had soothed him thus, and the sweet souvenir provoked adeep sigh. 

"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured the voice of Mlle. Fouchette. 

"L'hôpital ou dépôt?" inquired the nearest agent. 

"Dépôt, " said the sous-brigadier. 

"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "See, messieurs; he iswounded and weak, and----"

"One moment!"

A young surgeon knelt and applied his ear to the heaving breast, whilethe police agents whispered among each other. 

Mlle. Fouchette caught the words, "It is La Savatière, " and smiledfaintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of openeyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently. 

"So! It--it is only Mademoiselle Fouchette. I----"

He saw the cloud that rose upon her face and heard the gentle humilityof her reply, --

"Yes, monsieur, it is only Fouchette. How do you find yourself, Monsieur Jean?"

She put a flask of brandy to his lips and saw him swallow a mouthfulmechanically. Suddenly he raised himself to a sitting posture andlooked anxiously about. 

"Where is he?"

"Who? Where is who, monsieur?"

"Lerouge. Why, he was here but now. Where is he?"

"Lerouge! That wretch!" cried the girl, with passion. "I couldstrangle him!"

"Oh! no, no, no!" he interposed. "It is a mistake. His sister, Fouchette----"

His glance was more than she could bear. She would have drawn him backto her as a mother protects a sick child, only a rough handinterposed. 

"See! he raves, messieurs. "

"Let him rave some more, " said the sous-brigadier. "This is ouraffair. So it was Monsieur Lerouge, was it? Very good! Henri Lerouge, medical student, Quartier Latin, anarchist, turbulent fellow, rascal, --well cracked this time!"

Jean looked from the girl to the man and laid himself back in her armswithout a word. 

"Make a note, " continued the police official, --"bad characters, both. This man goes to dépôt!"

"For shame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette. 

"And hear this!" added the sous-brigadier in an angry voice, --"if thisgrisette of Rue St. Jacques gives you any of her guff run her in!"

"But--no, monsieur, that you will not! My business is here, --myauthority above your authority, --and here I will remain!"

"Show it!" demanded the official. 

She regarded him wrathfully. 

"Very well, mademoiselle, " said he, choking back his anger. "I know myduty and will not be interfered with by----"

"Gare à vous!" she interrupted, threateningly. 

"Don't!" whispered Jean. "It is nothing. But tell me quickly, --hasLerouge gone to prison?"

"Hôtel Dieu, " she replied. 

"Good! Go to his place, 7 Rue Dareau, you know, --tellher, --Mademoiselle Remy, --his sister, Fouchette----"

She bent lower over his head, hiding her face from his sight. 

"Ah! what a fool I have been, Fouchette! Tell her gently--that he isinjured--slightly, mind--and where he is. That's a good girl, Fouchette, --good girl that you are!"

He could not see her face for the hair that fell over the bowedhead, --the living picture of the repentant Magdalen. But he felt herwarm breath upon his cheek, and, was it a tear that splashed hotly onhis neck?

But she merely pressed his hand for a reply and, disengaging herdress, darted from the place. 

Threading her way rapidly among the arriving and departing vans andambulances, the scattered remnants of the mob and the swarms ofshifting police agents, Mlle. Fouchette finally reached a street opento traffic. 

It was only at rare intervals that she indulged herself in a cab. Thiswas one of the times. Hailing the first-comer, she jumped in andcalled out to the fat cabby, "Place Monge. "

He drove thoughtfully as far as the next corner and then inquired overhis shoulder where Place Monge was. She stood up behind him and fairlyscreamed in his ear, --

"Square Monge, espèce de melon! Quartier Latin!"

The bony horse started up at the sound of her voice as from the lash. Evidently, Mlle. Fouchette was not in good temper. She had no relishfor the work of good-will cut out for her. She was disgusted at theweakness of man. If she had been driver at that moment she would haverun down a few of them en route. Still, her cocher did his best. 

At Place du Parvis Notre Dame she called out to him to stop. Gettingout, she bade him wait near by, and started down along the quai infront of the Préfecture de Police. The man seemed suspicious and kepta sharp eye on his fare. Just as he was about to follow the girl hesaw her start back, as if she had changed her mind. 

She began to walk very rapidly towards him, looking neither to theright nor to the left. A man in a soft hat who had just left thePréfecture crossed the street in the opposite direction and, curiouslyenough, though there was an empty desert of space in the vicinity, thetwo jostled each other almost rudely and exchanged angry words. 

After which the girl retook her place in the fiacre and said "Allons!"in a subdued tone that strongly contrasted with her former acerbity. 

"Sure!" said the cabby to himself, --"she's drunk. " And he lookedforward to the near future rather gloomily. 

His suspicion seemed more than justified when she again said PlaceMonge instead of Square Monge, the former being nearly half a milefarther. He almost collapsed when she finally got down and not onlyhanded him the legal fare without dispute but double the usualpourboire. 

"Toujours de même ces femmes-là!" he growled, philosophically. Whichmeant that women were pretty much alike, --you never could tell whatone of them would do. 

Mlle. Fouchette, quite indifferent at any time to the private judgmentof the cab-driving world, now silently and swiftly pursued the uneventenor of her thoughts, not yet manifest. She hurried along the sombrewalls of the giant caserne de la garde on the Rue Ortolan, plungedacross the crowded Rue Mouffetard, and entered the picturesque littlewine-shop on the corner. 

It was a low, grim, two-story affair in time-worn stone, the door andwindows heavily grilled in the elaborate and artistic wrought-ironwork of the middle ages. A heavy oaken door supplemented the bigbarred gate and added to the ancient prison-like appearance of theplace. Against the grilles of the Rue Mouffetard hung specimens of thefilthy illustrated Paris papers, either the pictures or text of whichwould debar them from any respectable English-speaking community. Overthe door opening into the Rue du Pot de Fer and below a lamp of thatexquisite iron-work which is now one of the lost arts was displayed asmall bush, intimating that, in spite of the strong improbability, good wine was to be had inside. 

While a casual glance showed that the rooms above could not be highenough of ceiling for an ordinary individual to stand upright, theflowers in the little square recessed and grilled windows showed thatthis upper portion was inhabited. It was connected with the wine-shopbelow by a narrow and very much worn stone staircase, which ascended"à tire-bouchon, " or corkscrew fashion, like the steep steps of alight-house. 

As to the general reputation of the neighborhood, Mlle. Fouchette knewit to be "assez mauvaise, "--tolerably bad, --though it was not thisknowledge that induced her to complete her journey on foot. 

Her entrance caused a subdued but perceptible flutter among theoccupants of the resort. These were, at the moment, fourrespectable-looking men in blouses, an old gentleman in the last stageof genteel rustiness, and a couple of camelots in the second stage ofdrunkenness, --that of undying friendship. The four, who appeared to beworthy tradesmen of the neighborhood, occupied a far table in thesmall and time-begrimed room, where they played at cards for smallstakes; the rusty old gentleman sat alone with a half-emptiedbeer-glass and an evening newspaper before him; the street-hawkerswere standing at the zinc, which in Paris represents our American bar, discussing the events of the day in the hoarse-lunged, insolent toneof their class. 

Presiding over the establishment was--yes, it was Madame Podvin. Somewhat stouter, redder of face, more piggy of eye, with more decidedwhiskers, but still Madame Podvin. 

She busied herself behind the zinc washing glasses, occasionallyglancing at the men in the corner, smiling upon the inebriatedcamelots, and now and then casting a suspicious eye upon the quiet oldgentleman behind his beer. 

Madame Podvin had retired from the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers upon theretirement of Monsieur Podvin from public life by the State, and hadfound this congenial city resort vacant by reason of death, --theproprietor having been stabbed by one of his friendly customers overthe question of pay for a drink of four sous. 

Upon the entrance of Mlle. Fouchette Madame Podvin tapped the zincsharply with the glass as if to knock something out of it, thengreeted the new-comer effusively. 

The four men hastily gathered up their stakes and began talking aboutthe weather; the subdued camelots sipped their absinthe in silence;the old gentleman fell to reading his paper with renewed interest. 

"Bonjour, madame, " said Mlle. Fouchette, smilingly ignoring theprivate signal, though inwardly vexed. 

"Mademoiselle Fouchette! Ah! how charming of you!" exclaimed MadamePodvin, hastily wiping her hands and coming around the open end of thebar to embrace her visitor. 

Beneath the most elaborate politeness the Parisian conceals thebitterest hatred. French politeness is mostly superficial at best, --itoften scarcely hides a cynicism that stings without words, a satirethat bites to the verge of insult. The more Frenchwomen dislike eachother the more formal and overpowering their compliments--if they donot come to blows. 

"Thank you very much, madame, " Mlle. Fouchette replied, as MadamePodvin kissed her cheeks. "Ah! you are always so gay and delightful, madame!"

"And how lovely you have grown to be!" exclaimed the Podvin, with agood show of enthusiasm, holding the girl off at arm's length forinspection. "It seems impossible that you should have come out of arag-heap! And your sweet disposition----"

Madame Podvin elevated her hands in sheer despair of being able todescribe it. 

"It must go well with you, madame, you are always so amiable andcheerful, " retorted Mlle. Fouchette. 

"But you are more lovely every day you grow older, " said MadamePodvin. 

"Ah! Madame does not grow older!"

"Fouchette, chérie, I'm sure you must belong to a good family, you areso naturally winning and well-bred. The clothes you had on when Ifound you----"

"Madame?"

"I gave them away--for twenty--yes, it was twenty francs--they werenot worth as many sous--to a gentleman----"

Madame Podvin stopped at the sight of Mlle. Fouchette's face; but, uncertain whether the subject pained, interested, or irritated thelatter, she continued, ----

"It was shortly after you left. He was very curious, --one of thesegovernment spies, you know, Fouchette----"

"Madame, I would see Mademoiselle Madeleine, " interrupted the other. 

Madame Podvin frowned. 

"Not sick, I hope, " added Fouchette. 

"Oh! no; only----"

"Drinking?"

"Like a fish!"

"Poor Madeleine!"

"She's a beast!" cried Madame Podvin. 

Madame Podvin sold vile liquor but despised the fools who drank it, and in this she was not singular. 

"Is she----" Mlle. Fouchette raised her eyes heavenward inquiringly. 

"No, --she's in the street. Ever since she got out of the hospital shehas been going from bad to worse every day. And she owes me two weeks'lodging. If she doesn't pay up soon I'll----"

Whatever the Podvin intended to do with Madeleine she left it unsaid, for the latter stood in the doorway. 

Great, indeed, was the change which had come over this unfortunategirl. Stout to repulsiveness, shabby of attire, fiery of face, unsteady of pose, with one bright beautiful eye burning with thesupernatural fire of absinthe, the other sealed in internal darkness. 

"Oh! Madeleine----" began Mlle. Fouchette, painfully impressed andhesitating. 

"What! No! Fouchette? Mon ange!"

The drunken woman staggered forward to embrace her friend. 

"Why, Madeleine----"

"Hold! And first tell me your bad news. You know you always bring mebad news, deary. You hunt me up when you have bad news. Come, now!"

"Là, là, là, là!" trilled Mlle. Fouchette, passing her arm around theother's thick waist to gain time. 

"Come! mon ange, --we'll have a drink anyhow. Mère! some absinthe, --wehave thirst. "

"No, no; not now, Madeleine. "

"Not a drop here!" said Madame Podvin, seeing that Mlle. Fouchette wasnot disposed to pay. 

"Not now, " interposed the latter, --"a little later. I want a word ortwo with you, Madeleine, first. Just two minutes!"

The one brilliant orb regarded the girl intently, as if it would diveinto her soul; but the habitual good-nature yielded. 

"Very well. Come then, chérie, --à l'impériale!"

And, indeed, the narrow, spiral stair more closely resembled thatwhich leads to the impériale of the Paris omnibus than anything foundin the modern house. 

The space above was divided in four, the first part being the smallantechamber, dimly lighted from the roof, which they now entered. Through a door to the right they were in a room one-third of which wasalready occupied by an iron camp-bed. The rest of the furnitureconsisted of a little iron washstand, a chair, and some sort of a boxcovered with very much soiled chintz that was once pretty. Above thislatter article of furniture was a small shelf, on which werecoquettishly arranged a folding mirror and other cheap articles oftoilet. A few fans of the cheap Japanesque variety were pinned hereand there in painful regularity. A cheap holiday skirt and otherfeminine belongings hung on the wall over the cot. In the small, square, recessed window opening on Rue Mouffetard were pots offlowering plants that gave an air of refinement and comfort to a placeotherwise cheerless and miserable. 

And over all of this poverty and wretchedness hung a blackened ceilingso low that the feather of Mlle. Fouchette swept it, --so low and darkand heavy and lugubrious that it seemed to threaten momentarily tocrush out what little human life and happiness remained there. 

Madeleine silently motioned her visitor to the chair and threwherself on the creaking bed. She waited, suspiciously. 

"The riots, you know, Madeleine, " began Mlle. Fouchette. 

"Dame! There is always rioting. One hears, but one doesn't mind. "

"Unless one has friends, Madeleine----"

The maimed and half-drunken woman tried to straighten up. 

"Well? Out with it, Fouchette. If one has friends in the row----"

"Why, then we feel an interest in our friends, n'est-ce pas?"

"It is about Lerouge!"

"Yes, Madeleine, I want----"

"Is he hurt?"

"Yes, --badly, --and is at the Hôtel Dieu. I want his address. He hasmoved from 7 Rue Dareau since the police--since----"

"You want his address for the police, " said the girl. 

"Oh! no! no! not for that, dear!"

"Not for that; then what for? Tell me why you want it. "

This was exactly what Mlle. Fouchette evidently did not desire to do. Madeleine saw it, and added firmly, --

"Tell me first, then--well, then I'll see. "

"I will, then, " rejoined the other, savagely. 

"Speak!"

"I wish to notify his sister. "

Madeleine looked at the speaker fixedly, as if still waiting for herto begin; stupidly, for her poor muddled brain refused to comprehend. 

Mlle. Fouchette continued, --

"I say I wish to go to his place, " she said, with great deliberation, "and notify his sister that her brother is injured and is lying atHôtel Dieu. I promised. It is important. Believing you knew theaddress I have come to you. You will help me, for his sister'ssake, --for his sake, Madeleine? You know his sister lives withhim----"

"You--you said his sister----"

But the voice choked. The words came huskily, like a death-rattle inher throat. 

"Yes, sister, " began again Mlle. Fouchette. But she was almost afraidnow. The aspect of her listener's face was enough to touch even aharder heart than possessed this not too tender bearer of ill news. 

However, Madeleine would have heard nothing more. She gazed vacantlyat the opposite wall, a knee between her hands, and swaying slightlyto and fro. Her face, bloated with drink, had become almost pale, andwas the picture of long-settled grief. It was as if she were in freshmourning for the long ago. 

Presently a solitary tear from the unseen and unseeing eye stole outof its dark retreat and rolled slowly and reluctantly down upon thecheek and stopped and dried there. 

Mlle. Fouchette saw it as the weather observer sees the moisture onthe glass and speculated on the character of the coming storm. 

She was disappointed. For instead of an explosion Madeleine suddenlyrose and began fumbling among the garments on the wall without a word. She selected the best from her humble wardrobe and laid the piecesout one by one on the bed, then began rapidly to divest herself ofwhat she wore. 

When interrogated by the wondering Fouchette she never replied. Indeed, she no longer appeared to notice that her visitor was there. She bathed her face, and washed her hands, and scrubbed her whiteteeth, and carefully rearranged her hair. All of this with a calmnessand precision of a perfectly sober woman, --as she now undoubtedly was. She then resumed her hat. 

"How!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, noting this quiet preparation withgrowing astonishment, --"not going out?"

"Yes, " replied the girl. 

"But, dear, you have not yet given me the address. "

"It is unnecessary. "

"But, Madeleine!"

"It is unnecessary, Fouchette. I will go and see his--his sister andlead her to him. "

"But, deary!"

"And I will go alone, " she added, looking at the other for the firsttime. 

Unmindful of the wheedling voice of remonstrance, without anotherword, and leaving her door wide open and Mlle. Fouchette to follow ornot at her pleasure, the miserable girl gained the street and swiftlysped away through the falling shadows of the night. 

CHAPTER XIV

Jean Marot occupied a cell in a "panier à salade" en route for thedépôt, not so much the worse for his recent exciting experience as atfirst seemed probable he might be. 

There were eight other occupants of the prison-van besides himself, one of whom was a soldier guard. Five narrow cells ranged along eitherside of a central aisle. Each had a solitary small, closely shutteredbreathing-hole opening outside. The guard occupied a seat in the aislenear the rear door, from which he could survey the door of every cell. By this arrangement prisoners were kept separate from each other, werenot subjected to a gaping crowd, and ten persons could be safelyescorted by a single guard. 

From the half-suppressed murmurs and objurgations that followed everysevere jolt of the wagon, Jean rightly judged that most of theprisoners were more or less injured. And as the driver drovefuriously, having the fight of way and being pressed with businessthis particular Sunday afternoon, there were still louder and moreexhaustive remarks from those who narrowly escaped being run over bythe cellular van. 

Jean Marot, however, was too much engrossed with his own miserablereflections to pay any more than mechanical attention to all of this. Physically resuscitated and momentarily inflating his glad lungs anew, he still felt that terrible vice-like grip upon his throat, --thecompression of the fingers of steel that seemed to squeeze the lastdrop of blood from his heart. 

But it was mental suffocation now. For they were the fingers of herbrother, --the flesh and sinew of the woman he loved! And it was thislove that was being cruelly crushed and strangled. 

It was more terrible than the late physical struggle. The latter hadinvoked the energy, the courage, and the superhuman strength andendurance to meet it, --had roused the fire of conscious manhood. Nowthe sick soul revolted at its own folly. The props of self-respect hadbeen knocked away, and he lay prone, humiliated, deprived of theinitial courage to rise and hope. 

The chief cause of this self-degradation lay in the fact that he hadgrievously wronged the only one in the world he had found worthloving, --the one sweet being for whom he would have willinglysacrificed life. The fact that this wrong was by and in thought alonedid not lessen the horrible injustice of it. 

The more Jean thought of these things the more sick at heart he was, the more hopeless his love became, the more desperately dark thefuture appeared. There seemed to be nothing left but misery and death. 

This train of bitterness was interrupted by a violent wrangle betweenthe occupants of neighboring cells. A prisoner across the way hadshouted "Vive l'armée!" Another responded by the gay chanson, --

 "Entre nous, l'armée du salut, Elle n'a jamais eu d'autre but Que d'amasser d' la bonne galette. "

It came from his next-door neighbor, and was the familiar voice of thesaturnine George Villeroy. 

"Shut your mouth, rascal!" yelled the guard, rapping the cell doorwith his sword bayonet. 

A few minutes later the van was stopped, the rear door opened, and oneby one the prisoners, bloody, torn, and bedraggled, were handed outand hustled not very gently by two police agents through a heavilygrilled doorway into a room already crowded with victims of law andorder. All of these were yet to be called before the commissaire andinterrogated in turn, and by him either held or discharged. A goodmany were both hatless and coatless, and altogether they certainlybore a riotous and suspicious look. 

In the crowd near the desk where they were led to be registered Jeanmet his old friend Villeroy. 

"Oho!" exclaimed the latter, laughingly. 

"Oh, yes; it is I, my friend. "

"Pinched this time, hein?"

"So it seems. "

"And in what company?"

"Yours, I suppose, " retorted Jean. 

"Good company!" said Villeroy. "Kill any--any agents?"

"No, --no!" said Jean, who did not relish this subject. 

"See Lerouge?"

"N--that is----"

"The misérable!"

"Oh, as for that----"

"Well, he's done for, anyhow. "

"Wha-at?"

"His goose is cooked!"

"How is that? Not----"

"Dead. "

"Dead!"

"As a mackerel!"

Jean paled perceptibly and almost staggered against his friend. 

"Impossible!" he murmured. "It can't be! How----"

"Oh, easy enough, " interrupted the other, lightly. "Some ruffianchoked him to death, they say. Liable to occur, is it not? Sorry, ofcourse, but----"

Fortunately for Jean's self-control, they were rudely separated by twoangry opponents who wanted to fight it out then and there. He wouldhave betrayed himself in another moment. And, wrought up to thepresent tension, it seemed as if he must go mad and shriek his guiltto all the world. 

He sought an obscure corner and sat down on the floor with his back tothe wall, his chin upon his knees. 

In his own soul he was condemned already. He only awaited theguillotine. 

When he was aroused the room was almost cleared. A couple of agentsroughly hustled him before the busy commissaire. It was the oldofficial the student had struck that morning. The red welt across hisface gave it a sinister appearance. He glanced at the arraigned, thenread from the blotter, --

"Jean Marot, student, --um, um, um!--charged with--with--let'ssee--with uttering seditious cries calculated to lead to a breach ofthe peace. What have you got to say for yourself, young man?"

The prisoner had nothing to say for himself, --at least, nothing betterthan that, --so he was speechless. 

"Ah! evidently never been here before, " said the old commissaire. "Go!and never come here again. Discharged. Call the next. "

"Monsieur le Commissaire, " began a police agent who had here risen tohis feet with an air of remonstrance, --"monsieur----"

"Call the next!" said the commissaire, waving the agent downperemptorily. 

And thus Jean Marot, before he had recovered from his surprise, orcould even realize what had happened, was again hustled through thecorridor, this time to be unceremoniously thrust into the street--afree man. 

"Hold, Monsieur Jean!" said the lively voice of Mlle. Fouchette. "Whata precious long time you have been!"

"It might have been longer, " he remarked, vaguely accepting herpresence as not unnatural, and suffering himself to be led down theblock. 

"Oh, here it is, " said she, going straight to a cab in waiting. "Now, don't stop to ask questions or I'll be wicked. Get in! Dinner is----"

"Dinner is, is it?" he repeated, almost hysterically. 

He felt exhausted physically and mentally, indifferent as to what nowbefell him, prepared to accept anything. Nothing could be worse. Hefelt as if everything was crumbling beneath his feet. There was nobodyto lean against, nobody to sympathize with him, nobody to care one wayor the other, or----

Only this girl at his side. 

He looked at her wonderingly, now that he came to think of her. Thethin, insignificant figure, the pale face, the drooping blonde hairlying demurely on the cheeks, the bright steel-blue eyes, the pussycatpurr----

"How absurd you are, Monsieur Jean, with that awful face! One wouldthink it was because of the prospect of my dinner!"

"I am thinking of you, " he said. 

"Oh, thanks, monsieur! And so savagely--I have fear!"

She laughed gleefully, and affected to move away from him, only, atthat instant, the hind wheel of the voiture struck a stray bowlder, and the shock threw her bodily back against him. 

Both laughed now. 

"It is provoking, " she said. 

"It is the fatality, " said he. 

And he put his arm about her slender form and held her there withoutprotest. 

"I was thinking of you, mon enfant, " he continued, "and of what adear, good little thing you are. Mademoiselle, you are an angel!"

"Ah! no, monsieur!" she answered, in a voice that trembled alittle, --"do not believe it! I'm a devil!"

It is easy for a man in deep trouble to accept the first sympatheticwoman as something angelic. And now, in his gratitude, it was perhapsnatural that Jean should unhesitatingly supply Mlle. Fouchette withwings. He had humbled himself in the dust, from which point of viewall virtues look beautiful and all good actions partake of heaven. Hisresponse to her self-depreciation was a human one. He drew her closerand kissed her lips. 

In this he deceived neither himself nor the girl. She knew quite aswell as he where his heart was. It was a kiss of gratitude and ofgood-will, and was received as such without affectation. In hismasculine egotism, however, he quite overlooked any possible good orill to her in the matter, --his consideration began and ended in thegratification of her conduct towards him. And he would have been coldindeed not to feel the friendly glow which answers so eloquently thetouch of womanly gentleness and sympathy. 

As for Mlle. Fouchette, it must be admitted that this platonic caresscreated in her maidenly bosom a nervous thrill of pleasure not quiteconsistent in a young woman known to give the "savate" to younggentlemen who approached such familiarity, and who plumed herself onher invulnerability to the masculine wiles that beset her sex. Andwhat might have been deemed still more foreign to her nature, shenever said a word from that moment until the voiture drew up in frontof her place of residence in the venerable but not venerated Rue St. Jacques. 

"Voilà!" she then exclaimed, though it had not the tone of entiresatisfaction. 

"Hold on, little one, I will pay----"

But he discovered that those who had cared for him had alsobenevolently relieved him of his valuables. He had not a sou. 

"The wretches!" cried the girl. 

"They might have left me my keys, at least, " he muttered. 

"And your watch, monsieur?" she asked, apprehensively. 

"Gone, of course!"

"Oh, the miserable cowards!"

He was less moved than she at the loss. It seemed trifling by the sideof his other misfortunes. 

But the coachman was interested. He carefully noted the number of thehouse again, and when she passed up his fare looked into her face witha knowing leer. 

"If monsieur wishes to go back to the Préfecture, " he said to her, tentatively. 

"Oh, no!" said Jean. 

The girl, however, understood the significance of this inquiry, andcoldly demanded the man's number. 

"If Mademoiselle Fouchette should need you again, " she added, puttingthe slip in her pocket, "she will know where to find you. "

And to the manifest astonishment of the cabman, who could not divinewhat a woman of Rue St. Jacques would want with a man without money, or at least valuables, she slipped her arm through Jean's and enteredthe house. 

The shaded lamp turned low threw a dim light over a little tablesimply but neatly set for two in Mlle. Fouchette's chamber. A cold cutof beef, some delicate slices of boiled tongue, an open box ofsardines, a plate heaped with cold red cabbage, a lemon, olives, etc. , --all fresh from the rôtisserie and charcuterie below, --wereflanked by a mètre of bread and a litre of Bordeaux. The spread lookedquite appetizing and formidable. 

Absorbed as he was in himself, Jean could not but note the certaintyimplied in all of this preparation. Mlle. Fouchette could not haveknown that he would be at liberty, yet she had arranged things exactlyas if she had possessed this foreknowledge. If they had not made amistake and let him off so easily----

"You were, then, sure I would come?"

"Very sure, " said she, without turning from the small mirror where shereadjusted her hair. 

"Now, Monsieur Jean, " she began, in a nervous, business-like way, suiting the action to the word, "I'm the doctor. You are to do just asI tell you. First you take this good American whiskey, then you liedown--here--there--that way, --voilà!"

"But----"

"No!" putting her delicate hand over his mouth gently, --"you are notto talk, you know. "

He stretched himself at full length on the low couch without anotherprotest. She brought a towel and basin and, removing the collar whichhad been twisted into a dirty rope, bathed his face and neck. She sawthe red imprint of fingers on his throat with mingled hatred andcommiseration; but she said nothing, only pressing the wet towel tothe spot tenderly. In the place of the collar she put a piece of softflannel saturated with cologne, and passed a silk scarf around theneck to hold it there. With comb and brush she softly smoothed out hishair, half toying with the locks about the temples, and perching herlittle head this way and that, as if to more accurately study theeffect. 

"Ah! now that looks better. Monsieur is beginning to look civilized. "

She carefully pinned the ends of the scarf down over the shirt-frontto hide the blood that was there. 

All of this with a hundred exclamations and little comments andquestions that required no answers, and broken sentences of pity, ofraillery, of pleasure, that had no beginning and no ending asgrammatical constructions. 

Purr, purr, purr. 

Finally she rubbed his shoes till they shone, and flecked the dustfrom his clothes, --to complete which operation it was necessary forhim to get up. 

A slight noise on the landing caused him to start nervously. 

He was still thinking of one thing, --of a man lying cold and stiff atthe Hôtel Dieu. 

Both carefully avoided the subject uppermost in either mind, --HenriLerouge and his sister. 

First, she was astonished that he had not questioned her; next, shesought to escape questioning altogether. She was secretive by nature. And now, like a contrite and wretched woman conscious of her share ofresponsibility for a great wrong, she could only humble herself beforehim and await his will. 

"Now, Monsieur Jean, " she concluded, "we will eat. Come! You must behungry, --come! À table, monsieur!"

"Au contraire, I feel as if I could never eat again, " he said, desperately. 

"What nonsense! Come, monsieur, --sit down here and eat something! Youwill feel better at once. "

"Oh, you do not know! you cannot know!" he groaned, reseating himselfand taking his head between his hands. "It is too horrible! horrible!"

"Why, monsieur! What is it? Are you, then, hurt within? Say! Do yousuffer? How foolish I have been! I should have brought a doctor!"

She was kneeling in front of him in her genuine alarm. "Where is it, Monsieur Jean? Where is the pain? Tell me! Tell me, then, monsieur!"

"No! no! it is not that, my child! It is here! here! here!" He struckhis breast at every word, and bowed his head with abject grief. 

She was silent, thinking only of his hapless love. There was no wordfor that!

"Ah! if it were only that! If it had been me instead of him!"

"Monsieur! My poor Monsieur Jean! You must not give way thus!"

"I am not fit to sit at the table with you, mademoiselle! My hands arered with blood! Do not touch them! Understand? Red!"

"But you are crazy, monsieur!"

"No! I am--I am simply a _murderer_! Do you hear? A MURDERER!"

He whispered it with awful solemnity. Mlle. Fouchette, now thoroughlyfrightened, recoiled from him. He was mad!

"That's right!" he cried. "That's right, mademoiselle! I'm not fit totouch you! No wonder you shrink from me! For I have blood on myhands, --his blood, --understand?--my friend's! Lerouge dead! dead! Andby me!"

"What's that?" she demanded. "Lerouge dead? Nonsense! It is not so!Who told you that? I say it is not true!"

He seized her almost fiercely, --

"Not dead? Her brother not dead? Say it again! Give me some hope!" hepleaded, pitifully. 

"I tell you again it is not so! I saw one who knows but a few minutesbefore I met you!"

He sank on his knees at her feet and kissed her hands, now tremblingwith excitement. 

"Again!" he exclaimed. 

"It is as true as God!" said she. "And he is doing well!"

He took her in his arms passionately, pouring out the thankfulness ofhis soul in kisses and loving caresses, sobbing like a child. Theymingled their tears, --the blessed tears of joy and sympathy!

For a long time they rested thus, immobile, with thoughts too deep forexpression, --in a sacred silence broken only by sighs. Then when thecalm was complete she softly disengaged herself in saying, "And _she_is there, Jean, " as if completing the sentence long before begun. Butit required an effort. 

He answered by a pressure of the hand. That was all. 

"And now, then, monsieur, " she observed, abruptly and with playfulsatire, "I'm going to eat. I'm sorry you are not hungry, but----"

"Eat? Little one, " he joyously cried, "I can eat a house and lot!" Hetook her bodily between his hands, he who a moment before had been soweak, and tossed her as one plays with a child. 

"For shame! There is no house here for you, but I've got a lot to eat!There! No more of that, Monsieur Jean, or you shall have no supper!"

As he threatened her again with his exuberant spirits, she wisely butlaughingly put the table between them. But she looked a world ofhappiness from her eyes. 

From the extreme of mental depression Jean Marot was thus suddenlytransported to the extreme of happiness and hopefulness. Simplybecause the life of the man whom he would have done to death, in hisinsane jealousy of a successful rival, had become precious, priceless, as that of the brother of his beloved. The conditions were desperateenough as they were. To have slain her brother would not only haverendered them hopeless, it would have condemned the survivor to alifetime of remorse, unless, indeed, that life had not been happilyshortened by the guillotine. 

So they laughed, talked, ate, drank, and made merry, these two, takingno thought of the morrow until both the supper and the time necessaryto dispose of it were consumed. 

Jean lighted a cigarette that she gave him, and threw himself on thecouch. Meanwhile, the girl, with the assistance of Poupon, got somehot water and washed the dishes, putting them one by one carefullyback on the shelves in the wall. Finally the empty bottle found itsplace under the couch. 

Then she discovered that Jean was sleeping soundly. He had succumbedin spite of rattling dishes and her talk, and slept the heavy sleep ofphysical exhaustion. The cigarette had fallen from his fingers halffinished. His throat was still muffled in her silken scarf, but shetried to see if the marks were still there. For fully a minute sheremained standing over him, buried in thought. The old clock in theHenri IV. Tower behind the Panthéon chimed eleven. She sighed. 

"Very well!" she murmured. "Monsieur is right. He has no money, nokeys, and he is weary. He shall rest where he is. C'est égal!"

With this philosophical reflection she immediately began preparationfor retiring on her own account, completing this as if the monsieursnoring on the couch had no material existence. 

"Voilà!" said she, when she had drawn her curtains. 

And in two minutes more she was as oblivious to the world as was JeanMarot. 

CHAPTER XV

It would not be easy to define the sentiments or state theexpectations of Mlle. Fouchette. Whatever they were, she would havebeen unable to formulate them herself. 

Mlle. Fouchette was simply and insensibly conforming to her manner oflife. She was drifting. She did not know where. She never thought oftowards what end or to what purpose. 

Those who know woman best never assume to reduce her to the logicalrules which govern the mathematical mind, but are always prepared forthe little eccentricities which render her at once so charming anduncertain. The Frenchwoman perhaps carries this uncertainty to ahigher state of perfection than her sex of any other nationality. 

That Mlle. Fouchette was the possessor of that indefinable somethingpeople call heart had never been so much as suspected by those withwhom she had come in intimate contact. It had certainly neverinconvenienced her up to this time. To have gone to her for sympathywould have been deemed absurd. Even in her intense enjoyment of "lavie joyeuse" her natural coldness did not endear her to those whoshared her society for the moment. As a reigning favorite of theBohemian set she would have earned the dislike of her sex; but thiswas greatly accentuated by her repute as an honest girl. The worst ofthese "filles du quartier" observed the proprieties, were sticklersfor the forms of respectability. And Mlle. Fouchette, who was reallygood, trampled upon everything and everybody that stood in her way. 

As to her income from the studios, bah! and again bah!

Then what was Mlle. Fouchette?

That was the universal feminine inquiry. 

Mlle. Fouchette appeared to Jean Marot in a vaguely kaleidoscopic wayas a woman of no account possessing good points. Sometimes sheappeared to be cold, sly, vicious, and wholly unconscionable; again, good-hearted, self-sacrificing, sympathetic. But he did not botherabout her particularly, though he covertly watched her this morningpreparing breakfast. It was true, her blonde hair did not look as ifit had been touched by comb or brush, that she wore pantoufles thatexposed holes in the heels of her stockings, that her wrapper wassoiled and gaped horribly between buttons on and off its frontage;but, then, what woman is perfect before breakfast?

All this did not seriously detract from the fact that she had gone outof her way to look after him the day before. Nor did it explain thatshe had this morning invested herself with these slovenly belongings, taken in the demi-litre of milk that ornamented her door-knob, gonedown into the street for additional "petits pains, " added a couple ofeggs "à la coque" to the usual morning menu, set Poupon to work on thecafé-au-lait, and was now putting the finishing touches to her littletable in anticipation of the appetite of her awaking guest. 

"Bonjour, my little housekeeper. "

"Ah! bonjour, Monsieur Jean. Have you rested well? What a lazy man!You look well this morning, monsieur. "

"Oh, yes; and why not, mon enfant?" said he, straightening up somewhatstiffly. 

"And your poor bones?" she laughingly inquired, referring to theimprovised couch. "It is not a comfortable bed for one like monsieur. "

"It is luxury unspeakable compared to the bed I had anticipated earlylast evening. I never slept better in all my life. "

"Good!" said she. 

"And I'm hungry. "

"Better!" said she. "Here is a clean towel and here is water, " showinghim her modest toilet arrangement, "and here is petite Pouponscolding----"

"'Poupon'? 'scolding'?"

"Yes, monsieur. Have you, then, forgotten poor little Poupon? Forshame!" With mock indignation. 

She took the small blue teakettle, which had already begun to "scold, "and, stooping over the hearth, made the coffee. She then dropped thetwo eggs in the same teakettle and consulted the clock. 

"Hard or soft?" she asked. 

"Minute and a half, " he replied in the folds of the towel. 

She was pouring the coffee back through the strainer in order to getthe full strength of it, though it already looked as black as tar andstrong enough to float an iron wedge. At the same time she saw himbefore her glass attentively examining the marks on his throat, noweven more distinctly red than on the night before. But she knewinstinctively that his thoughts were not of his own, but of anotherneck. 

Breakfast was not the lively repast of the previous evening. In thebest of circumstances breakfast is a pessimistic meal. The world neverlooks the same as it appeared at yesterday's dinner. 

Jean had risen to a falling barometer. The first ebullition of joy athaving been spared the slaughter of his friend and the brother of thegirl he loved had passed and the real future stared him in the face. He began to entertain doubts as to whether a single glance from a pairof blue eyes was a solid foundation for the magnificent edifice he haderected thereon. But Jean Marot was intensely egoist and was prone toregard that which he wanted as already his. 

Mlle. Fouchette was facing the same question on her own account, --afact which she concealed from both as far as possible by makingherself believe it was his affair exclusively. As it is always easierto grapple with the difficulties of others than with our own, she soonfound means to encourage her illusion. 

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"You are not at all a woman----"

"What, then, monsieur, if I am not----"

"Wait! I mean not at all like other women, " he hastily interposed. 

"Par exemple?"

"Because, first, you have not once said 'I told you so, '--notreproached me for disregarding your advice. "

"No? But that would be unnecessary. You are punished. Next?"

"Well, you let me remain here. "

"Why not?"

She opened the steel-blue eyes on him sharply, --so sharply, in fact, that Jean Marot either could not just then remember why not or that hedid not care to say. But she relieved him of that embarrassment veryquickly. 

"If you mean that I should be afraid of you, monsieur, or that I wouldhave thought for a moment----"

"Oh! no, no, no! I do not mean that, of course. It was the fear womenhave of others----"

"What do I care for 'others'!" she snapped, scornfully. "Pray, Monsieur Jean, are there, then, 'others' who care anything about me?No! Ask them. No! I do what I please. And I account to nobody. Understand? Nobody!"

Mlle. Fouchette brought the small, thin white hand down upon the tablewith a slap that gave sufficient assurance of her sincerity, at thesame time giving a happy idea of her immeasurable contempt forsociety. 

"But, my dear Mademoiselle Fouchette, I, at least, care foryou, --only----"

"Là, là, là! Only you don't care quite enough, Monsieur Jean, to takemy advice, " she interrupted. "Is not that it?"

"If I don't I shall be the loser, I'm afraid, " he replied, lugubriously. 

"And then I should be sorry. "

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Because I am not worthy of it. Now answer me. "

"Well, because it pleases me, " she responded, with a smile. "You knowwhat I said but a moment ago? I do what I please and account tonobody. "

"Very well. Now, does it please your Supreme Highness to continue toshower the blessing of your royal favor upon me?"

"For to-day, perhaps; if you obey my imperious will, monsieur. "

He prolonged the comedy by kneeling on one knee and saying humbly, "Iam your most obedient subject. Command!"

"Bring me my clothes, monsieur. "

"Er--wha-at? clothes?" he stammered. 

"I said clothes, --on the bed there. Lay them out on the couch, please. "

He found her simple wardrobe of the previous day on the bed--theskirt, the little bolero, the hat with the feather--and laid them outon the couch one by one with mock care and ceremony. 

"There!"

"Shake them out, monsieur. "

"Yes, your Highness. "

She was putting away the last breakfast things when she heard anexclamation. 

"Red!" said he. "And beard, too, as I'm a sinner!"

He had found a tuft of red beard twisted in the fastening of thebolero. The expression on his face would have defied words. As forMlle. Fouchette, she was for a moment of the same color of thetelltale hair. For some reason she did not wish Jean to know of herpart in the riot. At the same time she was angry with herself for thewomanly feeling of delicacy that surged into her cheeks. 

"Where did you get it?" he asked, quizzically. 

"Monsieur! Go away!"

"I didn't know you'd been decorated, mademoiselle, --really, --Legion ofHonor, too!"

"Bah! I must have given some man a good pull in the crowd, " said she. "How provoking!"

"For him, doubtless, yes. "

"To return to your affairs, Monsieur Jean, " she said, grabbing thegarments and proceeding to put them on with that insouciance begottenof studio life. "Have you any money?"

"With me? Not a sou!"

She slipped her hand down her neck and drew forth a small bag heldthere by a string and took from it a coin, which she tendered him. 

"Here is a louis, --you may repay it when you can. "

"Thank you, my child. But it is not necessary. I can get some money atthe Crédit Lyonnais. "

"But, monsieur, you can't walk there! And we will be busy to-day. "

"Oh, we will be busy, will we?"

"Yes, --unless you rebel, " she replied, significantly. 

"At least, your Highness will let me know----"

"First, we must go and find out how Lerouge is----"

"Good!"

"Next, see an agent about your place. You are to sell your lease, youknow, and furniture----"

"And furniture, --very well. After?"

"And then we must find you a new place, --cheaper, don't you know?"

"A good deal cheaper, " he said. 

"In this quarter they are cheapest. "

"Then let it be in the quarter. "

"Voilà! Now that's all right. " A remark which may have equally appliedto his affairs or to the putting on of her shoes. 

"A very simple appartement will serve, " he observed, when she soundedhim on his idea of cheapness. 

"There is a lovely one de garçon next door to me, but it is dear. Itis a little parlor, bedroom, and kitchen. And this is a quiet house, monsieur. "

"Good! I like quietude, and----"

"Oh, it is a very quiet place, " she assured him. 

"This appartement, --dining-room?"

"No! What does a man alone want with a dining-room? Let him eat in theparlor. "

"Yes, that would be luxury, " he admitted. 

"One doesn't need the earth in order to eat and sleep. "

"N-no; but how much is this luxury of the Rue St. Jacques?" heinquired. 

"It is four hundred francs, I believe. " She heaved a sigh of regret. It seemed a large sum of money to Mlle. Fouchette. 

"Four hundred a year? Only four hundred a year! Parbleu! And now whatcan one get for four hundred a year, ma petite Fouchette?"

"S-sh! monsieur, --a good deal!" she exclaimed, smiling at his naïveté. With all his patronizing airs she instinctively felt that this man whotreated her as if she were a child was really a provincial who neededboth mother and business agent. 

"I'd like to see it, anyhow, " said he. 

"At once, monsieur, --so you shall; but it is dear, four hundredfrancs, when you might get the same at Montrouge for two hundred andfifty francs. Here, --I have the key, --le voilà!"

It was the appartement of three rooms next door to her chamber, whichseemed to have been cut off from it as something superfluous in theRue St. Jacques. 

"Why--and Monsieur de Beauchamp is----"

"Gone. "

"Yesterday?"

"Yesterday afternoon, --yes. Quite sudden, was it not?"

She said this as though it was of no importance. 

"The huissier?" he suggested, official ejectment being the most commoncause of student troubles. 

She laughed secretively. 

"The police?"

Then she laughed openly--her pretty little silvery tinkle--and drewhis attention to the kitchen. 

It was a small dark place with a much-worn tile floor and a charcoalrange of two pockets faced and covered with blue and white tiles; animmense hood above yawning like the flat open jaws of a giganticcobra, which might not only consume all the smoke and smells butgobble up the little tile-covered range itself upon gastronomicalprovocation. 

"Isn't it just lovely!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, delightedly. "Andsee! here is a stone sink, and there's water and gas. "

Water and gas are still deemed luxuries in the more ancient quartersof Paris. As for baths, they are for the rich, --even the more modernstructures are parsimonious of baths. You realize all this when in aclose omnibus, or smell some well-dressed Parisienne ten feet away. When one of the dwellers of Rue St. Jacques takes a bath a batteredold tub is brought around on a wagon and unloaded in the court with anoise and ceremony that arouses the entire neighborhood, which putsits head out of the window and wonders who is going to be married. 

"And here's a private closet, too, " continued Mlle. Fouchette, --"everything! But that sweet little stove! I could cook acourse dinner on that!"

"Oh, you could, eh?" inquired Jean. "Then you shall. "

"Surely!" said the girl, as if it were settled from the first. "Besides, it is so much more economical for two than one. "

"Oh, is it?" he replied, doubtfully. 

"Of course, if one lives at expensive restaurants. And in bad weatheror when one feels grumpy----"

They looked at the large bedroom and small anteroom, or toilet-roomadjoining, which Mlle. Fouchette declared was good enough for a lord, inspected the closets, commented on the excellent condition of thepolished floors and newly papered walls, and finally decided that itreally was a good deal for the money. 

"It could be made a little paradise, " said she, enthusiastically. 

"Needing the angels, " he suggested. 

"Possibly; but one can get along very comfortably without them. "

"But I wonder why M. De Beauchamp, installed here so comfortably daybefore yesterday, should be missing to-day. There must be somedrawback here----"

"Oh, no. The truth is, M. De Beauchamp thought he saw--in fact, M. DeBeauchamp did see visions. In one of these he was foretold of apossible difference of opinion between himself and the government;about something that was to have happened yesterday and didn'thappen----"

"Did not happen. Go on. "

"There, Monsieur Jean, " she concluded, "that is all. Only, you see, M. De Beauchamp's arrangements having been made, he probably thought hemight as well disappear----"

"And his studio with him. "

"Precisely. Look what a nice big closet in the wall!"

"Yes, --funny. But, I say, mon enfant, was this handsome M. DeBeauchamp really an artist?"

"Bah! how do I know? He made pictures. Certainly, he made pictures. "

Jean Marot laughed so heartily at this subtle distinction that he lostthe mental note of her disinclination to gossip about her lateneighbor, --a reluctance that is decidedly foreign to the French femalecharacter. 

"Now, Monsieur Jean, "--when he had made up his mind, --"if you will letme manage the concierge, " she went on, "it may save you fifty francs, don't you know? Very likely the term has been paid, --he will make youpay it again. I know Monsieur Benoit, --he'd rob you like saying aprayer. "

"It is a novelty to be looked after by a female agent, anyhow, " musedthe young man, when she had disappeared on this mission. "If she picksup the fifty francs instead of that surly rascal Benoit I'm satisfied. It is a quiet place, sure, and dog cheap. Now, I wonder what her gameis, for women don't do all of these things for nothing. "

Jean was of the great pessimistic school of Frenchmen who never give awoman credit for disinterestedness or honesty, but who regard themgood-naturedly as inferior beings, amusing, weak, selfish creatures, placed on earth to gratify masculine vanity and passion, --to beadmired or pitied, as the case might be, but never trusted, and alwaysfair game. The married Frenchman never trusts his wife or daughteralone with his best male friend. No young girl alone in the streets ofParis is free from insult, day or night; and such a girl in such acase would appeal to the honor of Frenchmen in vain. 

Jean Marot would have never dreamed that Mlle. Fouchette had saved himfrom imprisonment. Even in his magnanimous moments he would havelistened to the accusation that this girl had robbed him of his moneyand watch quite as readily as to the statement that she had alreadytaken measures to insure the recovery of that personal property. Yet, while his estimate of woman was low, it did not prevent him fromloving one whom he had believed another man's mistress; it did notnow steel his heart against the sympathy of mutual isolation. 

"All goes well!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, skipping into the room. 

"All goes well, eh?" he repeated. 

"Yes, Monsieur Jean. Think then! it is a bargain. Oh, yes, one hundredfrancs----"

"What?"

"I say one hundred francs saved! The semestre was paid and you get itless a term's rent, thus you save one hundred francs. Isn't that nice?One can live two months on one hundred francs. "

"Oh! oh! oh! not I, " he laughingly exclaimed. "But I guess I'd betterlet you manage, little one; you have begun so well. "

Her face almost flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled. 

"And you shall have fifty of that hundred francs saved. It is onlyfair, petite, " he hastily added, seeing the brightness extinguished byclouds. 

But she turned abruptly towards the window. He mistook this gestureand said to himself, "She would like to have it all, I suppose. I'dbetter make a square bargain with her right here. " Then aloud, --

"Mademoiselle Fouchette!"

"Yes, monsieur, "--coldly. 

"What is your idea?"

"As to what, Monsieur Jean?"

"Well, say about our domestic affairs, if you will. "

"Well, monsieur, very simply this: I will care for the place if youwish, --somebody must care for it----"

"Yes, that is evident, and I wish you to help me, if you will. "

"Then I'll serve the breakfasts and any other meal you wish to payfor. In other words, if you prefer it in terms, I will be yourhousekeeper. I can cook, and I'm a good buyer and----"

"No doubt of that, mon enfant; but I am a poor man now, you know, andthe pay----"

"Pay! And who has asked you to pay anything? Do you suppose--ah!Monsieur Jean, you don't think me that!"

"But one can't be expected to work for nothing, " protested the youngman, humbly. 

"Work? It would be pleasure. And then you would be paying for what weate, wouldn't you? I have to make my coffee, --it would be just as easyfor two. And you would be perfectly free to dine at the restaurantwhen you chose, --we'd be as free as we are now, --and I would notintrude----"

"Oh, I never thought of that!" he declared. 

"Do not spoil my pleasure by suggesting money!" Her voice was growinglow and the lips trembled a little, but only for a second or two, whenshe recovered her ordinary tone. 

"As a rich man's son living in the Faubourg St. Honoré you might havesuspected that motive, but as a medical student chassé, and desertedby his parents and with no prospects to speak of----"

His lugubrious smile checked her. 

"Pardon! Monsieur Jean, I did not wish to remind you of yourmisfortunes. Let us put it on purely selfish grounds. I am poor. I amalone. I am lonely. I should at least earn my coffee and rolls. Iwould see you every day. My time would be pleasantly occupied. I willbe a sister, --bonne camarade, --nothing more, nothing less----"

He had taken her hands impulsively, but her eyes were veiled by theheavy lashes. 

"Voilà! It is then understood?" she asked, venturing to look up intohis face. 

"Certes! But your terms are too generous, --and--and, you know theobject of my heart, mademoiselle. "

"Toujours! And I will help you attain that object if possible, " shesaid, warmly, pressing his hand. 

"You are too good, mademoiselle, " he responded. "Next to one woman Ithink you are the best woman I ever knew!"

He took her in his strong arms and kissed her tenderly, though shestruggled faintly. 

"Enough! enough! You must not do that, monsieur! I do not like it. Remember how I hate men, spoony men, --they disgust me! As a woman Ican be nothing to you; as a friend I may be much. Save your caresses, monsieur, for the woman you love! You understand?"

"There! no offence, little one. Am I not your brother?" he asked, laughing. 

She nervously readjusted her blonde hair before the little glass anddid not reply. But it was evident that she was not very angry, forMlle. Fouchette was explosive and went off at a rude touch. 

At the same moment a terrible racket rose from the stairway, --thesound of a woman's voice and blows and the howling of a dog. Leaningover the banister the young couple saw a woman, short, broad, bareheaded, and angry, wielding a broom-handle. The passage was rathernarrow, so that more than half of the whacks at the dog were spentupon the wall and balustrade, though the animal, lashed to the latter, yelped at every blow the same. 

Now, in Paris a dog is a sort of a privileged animal, not quitesacred. Rome was saved by geese, pigeons are venerated in Venice. Dogspreserved Paris in the fearful day of the great siege by sufferingthemselves to be turned into soups, steaks, sausage, etc. Since whichParis has become the dog paradise, where all good dogs go when theydie. They not only have the right of way everywhere, but the exclusiveright of the sunny sidewalks in winter and shady side in summer. AFrenchman will beat his wife, or stab his mistress in the back, clubhis horses fiendishly, but he will never raise hand or foot against adog. 

From every landing came a burst of remonstrance and indignation. Vituperative language peculiar to a neighborhood that has enjoyed theintimate society of two thousand years of accumulated human wisdom andintellectual greatness, and embellished and decorated by the oldmasters, rose and fell upon the sinful dog-beater, with the effect ofincreasing the blows. 

Suddenly three persons sprang to the rescue, two from below and onefrom above. The last was a woman and the owner of the dog. 

"Mon Dieu! My dear little Tu-tu!" she screamed. 

And with a howl of wrath that drowned the piercing voice of poorlittle Tu-tu she precipitated herself upon the enemy. 

The latter turned her weapon upon the new-comer just as the two menfrom below grabbed her. This diversion enabled the infuriateddog-owner to plant both hands in the enemy's hair, which came off atthe first wrench. 

"Oh!" cried Jean. 

"It is horrible!" said Mlle. Fouchette, with a shudder. 

From where they beheld the tragedy they could not see that the hairwas false. 

But the dog-beater was just as angry as if it had been ripped from itsoriginal and virgin pasture, and she uttered a shriek that was heardaround the block and grappled her three assailants. 

The whole four, a struggling composite mass of legs and arms, wentrolling down to the next landing surrounded by a special and luridatmosphere of oaths. 

There they were arrested by the aroused police agents. 

Poor little Tu-tu had stopped howling. He was dead, --crushed under thehuman avalanche. 

"Yes, " said Jean, "this is a quiet house. "

"Dame!" replied Mlle. Fouchette, "it is like death!"

CHAPTER XVI

An hour later Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette were at the foot of thebroad stone steps leading to the Hôtel Dieu, the famous hospitalfronting on the plaza of Notre Dame. 

"I will wait, " he said. 

"Yes; I will inquire, " she assented. "I was here last night. " AndMlle. Fouchette ran lightly up the steps and entered the palatialcourt. 

Another woman was hastily walking in the opposite direction. She benther head and quickened her steps as if to avoid recognition. 

"Why, it is Madeleine!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself in theway. 

A face stamped with the marks of dissipation and haggard with watchingwas raised to meet this greeting. The one big, round, dark orb gleamedupon the speaker almost fiercely. 

"So you're here again, " muttered the one-eyed grisette, in her deepvoice. 

"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. Youhave 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 thismorning. "

"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 wayto 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 alittle 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 setthese friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends oncemore. "

The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard avoice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle. Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But thesearch 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 eachother like wild beasts. "

Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neckwere as plain as print. 

They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only belove 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. Itmust be Lerouge. 

"Chut! Here she comes, " whispered Mlle. Fouchette. 

It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt ofwhich cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hairpuffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blueeyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into aquestioning 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 warmlyreplied. 

She turned towards Mlle. Fouchette a little nervously, and Madeleineintroduced them. 

"It is strange, Mademoiselle Fouchette, " observed Mlle. Remy; "could Ihave 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 askyou 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, " saidMlle. Fouchette, humbly. 

"Ah!"

Mlle. Remy sighed. 

"Mademoiselle Fouchette and Monsieur Marot have come to learn the newsof 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 thesuspense 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 asif it would burst forth to attest its love for her. He had oftenconjured up this meeting and rehearsed what he would say to her. Nowhis 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 theintense scrutiny she felt but could not understand, grew visiblyuneasy. 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 manthat recalled her brother Henri, even these terrible finger-marks. Allat once she remembered the meeting of Mardi Gras, when her brotherinsulted him and pulled her away. 

Why?

It was because this young Marot admired her, and because he and herbrother were enemies. She saw it now for the first time. Paris wasfull of political enemies. Yet, in awe of her brother's judgment andlike a well-bred French girl, she dared not raise her eyes tohis, --with the half-minute of formalities she hurried away. But as sheturned she gave him one quick glance that combined politeness, shyness, fear, curiosity, and pity, --a glance that went straight tohis heart and increased its tumult. 

A pair of sharp, steel-blue eyes regarded him furtively, and, whilehalf veiled by the long lashes, lost not a breath or gesture of thismeeting 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. Ifthat scrutiny could not fathom Mlle. Fouchette's mind, it was perhapsbecause the mind of Mlle. Fouchette was not sufficiently clear. 

"Allons!" said the latter young woman, in a tone that scarcely brokehis revery. 

There is often more expression in a simple touch than in a multitudeof words. The unhappy grisette felt this from the sympathetic hand ofthe young man slipped into hers at parting. At a little distance sheturned to see Jean and Mlle. Fouchette enter a cab and drive towardsthe right bank. 

"Çà!" she murmured, "but if that petite moucharde had a heart it wouldbe his!"

During the next half-hour Mlle. Fouchette unconsciously gained greatlyin Jean's estimation by saying nothing. They went to the CréditLyonnais, in Boulevard des Italiens, to Rue St. Honoré, to the "agentde location, "--getting money, taking a list of furniture, seeing aboutthe sale of his lease. In all of this business Mlle. Fouchette showedsuch 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. Fouchetteissuing general direction, to the constant discomfiture of the worthyBenoit, thus deprived of unknown perquisites. 

When this work of installation had been completed, Jean found himselfwith comfortable quarters in the Rue St. Jacques at a saving ofnearly two thousand four hundred francs. 

"There!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. 

"At last!" said Jean. 

"Now, " Mlle. Fouchette began, with enthusiasm, "I'm going to getdinner!"

"Oh, not to-day! Allons donc! We must celebrate by dinner at therestaurant. "

"But it's a sinful waste of money, when one has such a sweetrange, --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 havemine. Why, what a parsimonious little wretch you are! And have you notbeen devoting all of your time and working hard for me these fivedays?"

"Ah! Monsieur Jean----"

"We will treat ourselves to a good dinner au boulevard. You have beenmy best friend----"

"Oh, Monsieur Jean!"

"Are my best friend, " he added. "I really don't see how I could havegotten on without you. "

"Ah! Monsieur Jean!"

"You have saved me hundreds of francs, --you are such a good littlemanager!"

Nothing up to that moment had ever given Mlle. Fouchette half thepleasure bestowed with this praise. Mlle. Fouchette blushed. Jean sawthis blush and laughed. It was so funny to see Mlle. Fouchette blush. This made Mlle. Fouchette blush still deeper. In fact, it seemed as ifall the warm blood that had been concealed in Mlle. Fouchette's systemso long had taken an upward tendency and now disported itself abouther 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 handsand laughed hysterically. 

"Mademoiselle----"

"Stop, stop, stop! I knew what you were going to say! It was moneyagain!"

"Really, mademoiselle----"

"It was! You did! You know you did! And you know how I hate it! Don'tyou dare to offer me money, because I love----" Mlle. Fouchette chokedhere a little, --"because I love to help you, Monsieur Jean!"

"But I was not thinking of offering you money for your kindness, monenfant. " 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 otherday?"

"Oh, yes! I'll make you pay your debts, monsieur, --never fear that!"

She began to recover her equilibrium, and smiled confidently in hisface. 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 eyeswithout grasping her meaning. "She is more feminine than one wouldsuppose, " he said to himself, --"almost interesting, really!"

"Come!" he cried, suddenly, "this is straying from the subject, whichis dinner. Come!"

"We'd have to do some marketing, anyhow, " she admitted, as if arguingwith 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 twofrancs and a half, café compris. " She was getting on her things, andfor the first time was conscious of the hole in the heel of herstocking. 

"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, --verygood, too. "

"It is too fashionable, --too many Americans. "

"Parbleu! one can be an American for one meal, can he not? They sayAmericans live well in their own country. They have meat three times aday, --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 agood 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 wouldhave preferred any other quarter of the city, though not earnestlyenough to stand out for it. 

They settled on the Café Weber, opposite the ancient Colleged'Harcourt, a place of the Bouillon order, with innumerable dishesgraded up from twenty centimes to a franc and an additional charge often centimes for the use of a napkin. 

Wine aside, a better meal for less money can be had in a score ofplaces on Broadway. In the matter of wine, the New York to the Parisprice would be as a dollar to the franc. 

In the Quartier Latin these places are patronized almost exclusivelyby the student class. Not less than fifty of the latter were at tablein the Café Weber when Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette entered. Hereand there among them were a few grisettes and as many cocottes of theCafé 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 awinning smile and nod for familiar customers. 

There was a perceptible sensation upon the entrance of the lastcomers. A momentary hush was succeeded by a general buzz ofconversation, the subject of which was quite easily understood. Thestately dame du comptoir immediately opened her little wicket and camedown from her perch to show the couple to the best seats, a courtesyrarely extended by that impersonation of restaurant dignity. Thehungry women almost stopped eating to see what man was in tow of the"Savatière. "

"We are decidedly an event, " laughingly observed Jean as they becameseated where they could command the general crowd at table. 

"Yes, monsieur, " replied the dame du comptoir, though his remark hadnot been addressed to that lady, --"the fame of the brave MonsieurMarot 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 leftthem in charge of the waitress of that particular table. 

"You see, Monsieur Jean, " said his companion, not at all pleased bythis reception, "we are both pretty well known here. "

"So it seems. Yet I was never in here before, if I remembercorrectly. "

"Nor I, " said she, "but once or twice. "

Notoriety is fame to Frenchmen, and while he did not yet fullycomprehend it, Jean Marot had reached this sort of fame in a singleday. His name had been actively and even viciously discussed in thenewspapers. He was accused of being both royalist and anti-Dreyfusardeby the ultra republican press. He was said to be a Bonapartist. TheDreyfusarde papers declared that the government had connived at hisdischarge from prison. The nationalist papers lauded him as a patriot. One extravagant writer compared him to the celebrated CamilleDesmoulins who led the great Revolution. A noisy deputation had calledupon him in the Rue St. Honoré to find that he had not been seen theresince the riot. 

Of all of this Jean Marot actually knew less than any otherwell-informed person in Paris. Being wholly absorbed in his domesticaffairs, he had scarcely more than glanced at a newspaper, and did notat this moment know that his name had ever been printed in the Parisjournals. The few acquaintances he had met had congratulated him forsomething, and some students he did not know had raised their hats tohim in the streets; and once he had been saluted by a class processionwith desultory cries of "Vive Marot!" Mere rioting was then too commonin Paris to excite particular attention individually. 

But Jean Marot had been magnified by newspaper controversy into aformidable political leader; besides which there were young men herewho had followed him a few days before in the riots. Therefore he wasnow the cynosure of curious attention. 

From admiring glances the crowd of diners quickly passed tocomplimentary 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 apatriot!" etc. 

These broken expressions were mingled with sly allusions to Mlle. Fouchette from the women, who were consumed by envy. They had heard ofthe Savatière's conquest with disbelief, now they saw it with theirown 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 elegantappartement for her in the Rue St. Jacques. "

"Rue St. Jacques. Faugh!"

It should be unnecessary to say that these encomiums were not designedfor the ears of Mlle. Fouchette, though the said ears must have burnedwith self-consciousness. But it may be well enough to remark thatdespite the spleen the object of it had risen immensely in theestimation of the female as well as the male habitués of Café Weber. 

As the couple occupied a table in the extreme rear, the patrons infront found it convenient to go out by way of the Rue Champollion inorder to see if not to bow to the distinguished guest. 

The apparent fact that the new political leader had taken up with oneof the most notorious women of the Quartier Latin in no way detractedfrom their esteem for him, --rather lent an agreeable piquancy to hischaracter. On the other hand, it raised Mlle. Fouchette to a certaindegree of respectability. 

These demonstrations annoyed our young gentleman very much. Nothingbut 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 ofthe river. "

"True, --I always make a mistake when I don't follow your advice. Havesome 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 thewine with the air of a connaisseuse. "A litre à cinquante is mytipple, " she said. 

"Now, what the devil do all these people mean?" he asked, when a partyhad 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 spreada table of dainty china. She had agreed with him in keeping hispictures, bric-à-brac, and prettiest dishes. 

"Ah! they are so sweet!" she would say. "Now here is a lovely blue cupfor you. I take the dear little pink one, --it's as delicate as anegg-shell, --Sèvres, surely! And here's some of my coffee. It is not asgood, perhaps, as you are used to, but----"

"Oh, I'm used to anything, --except being stared at and mobbed by a lotof curious chaps as if I were a calf with six legs, or had run offwith the President's daughter, or----"

"Or committed murder, eh?" said she. "People always stare atmurderers, 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 histasteful belongings, shut in by the heavy damask hangings, under thegraceful wreaths of smoke, they formed a very pretty picture. He, robust, dark, manly; she, frail, delicate, blonde, and distinctivelyfeminine. 

The comfort of it all smote them alike. The conversation soon becameforced, then ceased, leaving each silently immersed in thought. 

But Mlle. Fouchette welcomed this interval of silence with asatisfaction inexpressible. She, too, was under the spell of the placeand the occasion. Mlle. Fouchette was not a sentimental woman, as wehave seen; but she had recently been undergoing a mental struggle thattaxed all her practical common sense. She found now that she sawthings 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 mereliving--in her veins. It permeated her being and filled her heart withwarm desires. 

This feeling had been stealing upon her so gradually and insidiouslythat she had never realized it until this moment, --the moment when ithad taken full possession of her soul. 

"I love him! I love him!" she repeated to herself. "I have struggledagainst 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 wouldhave betrayed him, who wronged him, who thought love impossible!"

She did not try to deceive herself. She knew that at this moment, whenher heart was so full of him, he was thinking of another woman, --abeautiful and pure being that was worthy of his love, --that he hadforgotten her very existence. She had not the remotest idea of tryingto attract that love to herself. She did not even indulge in thepardonable girlish dreams in which "If" is the principal character. 

He was as impossible to her as the pyramids of Egypt. Therefore shewas frightened. 

"Mon Dieu! but I surely do love him!" She communed with her poorlittle bursting heart. "And it is beautiful to love!" She sigheddeeply. 

"Mademoiselle!"

She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heardher sigh, and felt the hot blood mantle her neck again, --for thesecond time within her memory. 

"Pardon! mademoiselle, " he said, gently, "I forgot. I wasthinking----"

"Of her? Yes, --I know. It is--how you startled me!"

There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he movedhis chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in theusual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a lowdivan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees andrested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to havehim touch her. 

"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone. 

"Bah! it is nothing, " she murmured; "and nothing magnified is stillnothing. "

There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged withtenderness. 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 shoulderswithout 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, thinkingonly 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 himtrembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow. 

"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that liftedhim among the stars. 

Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smotheredcry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quiveringheap. 

CHAPTER XVII

As a medical student, as well as habitué of the quarter, Jean Marotwas not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon hadMlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again. 

He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similarcircumstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse toover-excitement in arranging his affairs. 

Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of hismanipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. Whenshe finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelledhair 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 speakingof it but now. Tell me of that, please. It is so--love is sobeautiful, Monsieur Jean! Talk to me of her, --of Mademoiselle Remy. Ihave a woman's curiosity, monsieur, mon frère. "

It was the first time she had called him brother. She had risen uponher elbow and nervously laid her small hand upon his. 

She invited herself to the torture. It had an irresistible fascinationfor her. She gave the executioner the knife and begged him to exploreand 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 talkabout his passion to a sympathetic listener. And there never was timeor 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 soughther in Rue Monge, how Lerouge interposed, how he quarrelled with hisfriend, how the latter changed his address and kept the girl underclose confinement to prevent his seeing her, --Jean was certain ofthis. 

Monsieur Lerouge had a right to protect his sister, even against hislate friend; and even if she had been his mistress, Jean now argued, Lerouge was justified; but love is something that in the Latin risessuperior to obstacles, beats down all opposition, is obstinate, unreasonable, and uncharitable. 

When Mlle. Fouchette, going straight to the core of the matter, askedhim what real ground he had for presuming that his attentions, ifpermitted, would have been agreeable to Mlle. Remy, Jean confessedreluctantly that there were no reasons for any conclusion on thispoint. 

"But, " he wound up, impetuously, "when she knows--if she knew--how Iworship her she _must_ respond to my affection. A love such as minecould 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 inher place, --imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. Andyou look something like her, really, --that is, at least you have theexact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! Supposeyou were Mademoiselle Remy, I was going to say, and I were to tell youall this and--and how much I loved you, --how I adored you, --and gotdown 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, kneltbeside her and extended his arms, as if it were the woman he loved. 

"Mon Dieu!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself upon his breastprecipitately and entwining his neck with her arms, --"it would bethis! It would be this! Ah! mon Dieu! It surely would be this!"

For the moment Jean was so carried away by his imagination that heaccepted Mlle. Fouchette as Mlle. Remy and pressed her to his heart. He mingled his tears and kisses with hers. Her fair hair fell upon hisface and he covered it with passionate caresses. He poured out theendearing words of a heart surcharged with love. It was a very clevermake-believe on both sides, --very clever and realistic. 

As a medical adviser of an hysterical young woman Jean Marot couldscarcely have been recommended. 

And it must be remarked, in the same connection, that Mlle. Fouchetteremained in this embrace a good deal longer than even a cleverimitation seemed to demand. However, since the real thing could nothave 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 sowith 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 holdeach other thus. Her eyes were red and swollen and her dishevelledhair stuck to her tear-stained face. She was not at all pretty at themoment, yet Jean would have gone to the wood of St. Cloud sword inhand 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 oneaway with you. "

"I hope it will have that effect upon Mademoiselle Remy, " he said, butrather 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, " shemurmured. 

"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, " sheinterrupted, 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 miserablepart 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 hismovements at the Préfecture? And what would he do if he were awarethat she knew the true relation of Lerouge and Mlle. Remy and hadintentionally misled both him and Madeleine?

Fortunately, Mlle. Fouchette had been spared the knowledge of the realcause of Madeleine's misfortune, --the jealous grisette whom she hadset on to worse than murder. 

But she was thinking only of Jean Marot now. Love had awakened hersoul to the enormity of her offence. It also caused her to sufferremorse for her general conduct. Before she loved she never cared; shehad never suffered mentally. Now she was on the rack. She was beingpunished. 

Love had furrowed the virgin ground of her heart and turned upself-consciousness and conscience, and sowed womanly sweetness, andtenderness, and pity, and humility, and the sensitiveness to pain. 

Mlle. Fouchette, living in the shadow of the world's greatesteducational institutions, was, perhaps naturally, a heathen. Shefeared neither God nor devil. 

Jean Marot was her only tangible idea of God. His contempt would beher punishment. To live where he was not would be Hell. 

To secure herself against this damnation she was ready to sacrificeanything, --everything! She would have willingly offered herself to becuffed and beaten every day of her life by him, and would haveworshipped him and kissed the hand that struck her. 

Perhaps, after all, the purest and holiest love is that which standsready to sacrifice everything to render its object happy; that, blotting out self and trampling natural desire underfoot, thinks onlyof 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 desiredby her as well as Jean. There was at the same time a faint idea thather 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 brotheror you can never hope to win his sister. That is clear. Write tohim, --apologize to him, --anything----"

"I don't just see my way open, " he began. "You can't apologize to aman 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 inFrance just now. "

"Yes. Monsieur Jean, you must change your politics, " she promptlyresponded. 

"Wha-at? Never! Why----"

"Not for the woman you love?"

"But, Fouchette, you don't understand, mon enfant. A gentleman can'tchange 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 likethe other side. "

"Oh! oh!"

"Half of them don't know. It's only the difference between celui-ciand 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 betweenmutton and lamb chops for dinner. But Jean Marot walked impatiently upand down. 

"You overlook the possible existence of such a thing as principle, --ashonor, mademoiselle, " he observed, somewhat coldly. 

"Rubbish!" said Mlle. Fouchette. 

"Oh! oh! what political morals!" he laughingly exclaimed, with anaffectation of horror. 

"There are no morals in politics. "

"Precious little, truly!"

"Principles are a matter of belief, --political principles. You changeyour belief, --the principles go with it; you can't desert 'em, --theyfollow you. It is the rest of them, those who disagree with you, whonever have any principles. Is it not so, monsieur?"

He laughed the more as he saw that she was serious. And yet there wasa nipping satire in her words that tickled his fancy. 

A gentle knock at the door interrupted this political argument. Apeculiar, diffident, apologetic knock, like the forerunner of the mancome 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. Sheturned pale, and placed her finger on her lips. Then, with asignificant glance at Jean, she gathered herself together and tiptoedto 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 noreason for this singular development of timidity. As soon as he hadrecovered sufficiently he opened the door. 

A tall, thin man quietly stepped into the room, as quietly shut thedoor 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 intheir fringed pools, taking in every detail of the chamber. Theypenetrated the remotest corners, plunged at the curtains of the bed, and finally rested for a wee little moment upon the two cups andsaucers, the two empty glasses, the two spoons, which still remainedon the table. And yet had not Inspector Loup called attention to thefact one would never have suspected that he had seen anything. 

"Pardon, Monsieur Marot, " he said, half behind his hand, "but I am notdisturbing 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 andbrought up a package neatly wrapped in pink paper and sealed with ared 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 bea gold watch, hunting case, chronometer, Geneva make, witheighteen-carat gold chain, dragon-head design for hook; a bunch ofkeys, seven in number, and a door-key, and about one hundred andeighty francs in paper, gold, and silver. "

"Very good. Excellent memory, monsieur. It ought to serve you wellenough to keep out of such brawls hereafter. Here, --examine!"

Hastily opening the package, Jean found his watch and chain andeverything else intact, so far as he could recollect. He expressed hisdelight, --and when his grasp left the thin hand of the police officialit was to leave a twenty-franc gold piece there. 

"Will monsieur kindly sign this receipt?" inquired Monsieurl'Inspecteur, whose hand had closed upon the coin with true officialinstinct. 

"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 aroguish expression. 

"Bon soir, monsieur. "

And with another wink which meant "You can't fool me, young man, " hewas gone. 

"Well, this is luck!" muttered Jean aloud. He examined the watchlovingly. It was a present from his father. "But how did they getthese? how did they know they were mine? and how did they know where Ilived? Who asked----"

He went back to the closet and told Mlle. Fouchette the coast wasclear. There was no answer. He tried the door. It was locked. She hadturned 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 wouldsmother in that place!

He kicked the door impatiently. He got down upon his breast and puthis ear to the crevice below. If she were prostrated he might hear herbreathing. 

All was silence. 

This closet door was the merest sheathing, flush with the wall andcovered with the same paper, after the fashion of the ancient Parisianappartements, and had nothing tangible to the grasp save the key, which was now on the inside. Jean tried to jostle this out of place byinserting other keys, but unsuccessfully. 

"Sacré!" he cried, in despair; "but we'll see!"

And he hastily brought a combination poker and stove-lifter from thekitchen, and, inserting the sharp end in the crack near the lock, gavethe improvised "jimmy" a vigorous wrench. The light wood-work flew insplinters. 

At the same moment the interior of the closet was thus suddenlyexposed to the uninterrupted view. 

Jean recoiled in astonishment that was almost terror. If he had beenconfronted with the suspended corpse of Mlle. Fouchette he could havescarcely been more startled. 

For Mlle. Fouchette was not there!

The cold sweat started out of him. He felt among his clothes, --passedhis 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 vaguelyexamining his rooms, peering behind curtains and even moving bits offurniture, as if Mlle. Fouchette were the elusive collar-button andmight 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 couldcome out of a room leaving the doors locked and the keys on theinside. But for that lock, he might have even set it down to opticalillusion and have persuaded himself that perhaps she had really neverentered that place at all. 

As Jean Marot was not wholly given to illusions or superstitions, helogically concluded that there was some other outlet to that closet. 

"And why such a thing as that?" he asked himself. What could it befor? Was it a trap? Perhaps it was a police souricière? He rememberedthe warning of Benoit. 

Jean hesitated, --quite naturally, since he was up to the tricks of thepolitical police. If this were a trap, why, Mlle. Fouchette must haveknown all about it! Yet that would be impossible. 

Then he thought of M. De Beauchamp, and his brow cleared. Whatever thearrangement, it could have never been designed with regard to thepresent 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 ofhis when lost in thought. 

"Ah! it is a door of love!" he concluded. "Yes; that is all. Well, weshall find out about that pretty soon. "

The more he thought of the handsome, godlike artist who had somysteriously fled, why, the more he recalled Mlle. Fouchette'sconfusion on a certain evening when he first called on her, and herrecent disinclination to discuss his disappearance. He was now certainthat this mysterious exit emptied into her room. He smiled at his ownsagacity. His philosophy found the same expression of the cabman ofRue Monge, --

"Toujours de même, ces femmes-là!"

He laughed at the trick she had played him; he would show her howquickly he had reached its solution. He went outside and tapped gentlyon her door. 

No reply. 

He tried the lock, but it was unyielding. Examination by the light ofa match showed no key on the inside. 

"Eh bien! I will go by the same route, " he said, returning to hisroom. 

He brought a lighted candle to bear on the magical closet. It provedto be, as stated, the ordinary blind closet of the ancient Parisianhouses, 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 onthe inside a few times and hunting up a locksmith after midnight. 

The back of these closets, which are used for cupboards as well asreceptacles for clothing, abuts on the adjoining room, quite often, ina thin sheathing of lath and plaster, which, being covered with thewall-paper, is concealed from the neighboring eyes, but through whicha listener may be constantly informed as to what is going on nextdoor. 

A superficial survey of the place having developed no unusualcharacteristics, Jean took down all of his clothing and emptied thecloset of its contents to the last old shoe. 

With the candle to assist him, he then carefully examined the rearwall. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Mlle. Fouchette had her reasons for not wishing to meet Inspector Loupanywhere or at any time. These reasons were especially sound, considering this particular time and place. 

And that the knock on Jean's door was that of Inspector Loup she hadno more doubt than if she had been confronted by that official inperson. 

Therefore her flight. 

The visit of Inspector Loup had the same effect upon Mlle. Fouchettethat the unexpected appearance of the general of an army might haveupon a sleepy picket-guard or a man off post. Inspector Loup was toher a sort of human monster--a moral devil-fish--that not even thecleverest could escape if he chose to reach out for them. 

Mlle. Fouchette had been seized by the tentacles of Inspector Loup inher infancy, as has been seen, and from that moment had become thecreature of his imperial will, --had, in fact, finally become one ofthe myriad infinitesimal tentacles herself, subservient to themaster-mind. Whatever scruples she had imbibed from the society of theRendez-Vous pour Cochers had been dissipated by the Jesuit sisters ofLe Bon Pasteur. In the select circle of the vagabonds of the Porte deCharenton and robbers of the wood of Vincennes the police agent wasexecrated, and the secret informer, or spy, was deemed the mostdespicable of human creatures and worthy only of a violent death;whereas the good Mother Supérieure of Le Bon Pasteur encouraged thetale-bearer and rewarded the informer with her favor and theassurance of the Divine blessing. Even the good Sister Agnes--nowalready a kind of shadowy memory--had taught the waif that spying outand reporting to the constituted authorities was commendable andhonorable. 

And to do Mlle. Fouchette full justice she so profited by thesereligious teachings that she was enabled to impart valuable insideinformation to Inspector Loup's branch of the government concerningthe royalist plottings at Le Bon Pasteur. The importance of theserevelations Mlle. Fouchette herself did not understand, but that itwas of great value to the ministry--as possibly corroborating otherfacts of a similar nature in their possession--was evidenced by thetransfer of Mlle. Fouchette's name to a special list of secret agentsat the Ministry, with liberty to make special reports over the head ofMonsieur l'Inspecteur himself. 

From that moment the latter official watched Mlle. Fouchette with avigilant eye; for under the spy system agents were employed to watchand report the actions of other agents. This held good from the top ofthe Secret Service down, --reminding one of the vermin of Hudibrasthat--

 "had fleas to bite 'em, And these same fleas had lesser fleas, So on ad infinitum. "

In Mlle. Fouchette the government had found one of the lesser fleas, but none the less sharp, shrewd, active, and unconscionable. 

Up to a quite recent period. 

Mlle. Fouchette's reports to the Préfecture had latterly betrayed alaxity of interest that invited official attention, if they did notcall down upon her the official censure. 

The girl was conscious of this. Half sullen, half defiant, she wasstruggling under the weight of the new views of life recentlyacquired. Like the rest of the intelligent world, whose wisdom chieflyconsists in unlearning what it has already learned, Mlle. Fouchettewas somewhat confused at the rapidity with which old ideas went topieces and new ideas crowded upon her mind. 

Because--well, because of Jean Marot. 

A single look from Inspector Loup before Jean would terrify her, --aword would crush her. 

She must have time. 

And why did Inspector Loup come there in person as errand-boy unlessfor another purpose? She thought of the secret agents who usuallyaccompanied Inspector Loup. She knew that at this moment they werespread out below like the videttes of an army. They were down in theRue St. Jacques in their usual function of Inspector Loup's eyes thatsaw everything and Inspector Loup's ears that heard everything. 

This visit to Jean was a mere pretext that covered something moreimportant. Was it concerning Jean? Or, was it her? Perhaps Monsieurl'Inspecteur wanted her, --a species of flattery which would have beenincense to her a month ago, and was now a terror. 

It was only a few days since she had earned fifty francs and thecompliments of Inspector Loup. It was true, Monsieur de Beauchamp hadgot away to Brussels, the centre of the Orléans conspiracy. 

He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicatedthe change of policy as to the well-known and openly toleratedmachinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orléanists inParis and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm andalso put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup. 

Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined femininephilanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case--he was such ahandsome and such an agreeable gentleman--and had given him thestraight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this goodaction, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought ofInspector Loup. She was only a poor petite moucharde, --a word fromhim--nay, a nod, a significant wink--would deprive her of the sunshinethat ripens the grapes of France. 

When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took thekey of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lockwas familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling thedoor shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again whenshe chose to come out. 

She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound ofMonsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her, --she knew it. She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watchand chain episode reassured her but little, --beyond the assurance thatJean was in no immediate danger. 

She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking tohave some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. Thewall was very thick and there was ample space behind her, but thisspace seemed to give way and let her back farther and farther, unexpectedly, as one leans against an opening door. 

It was a door. And it let her into the wall, apparently, and sosuddenly that she lost her balance. 

As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectlystill for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she hadmade no noise. 

"Dear me! but this is very curious, " she murmured, feeling the wallson all sides. 

She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left, --shecould feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key. 

All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all aboutJean, --even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselesslyand opened the door, --a little at first, then more boldly. 

She heard nothing. She saw nothing. Whatever the place it was as blackas pitch. 

She now recalled the mysterious goings and comings of the friends ofMonsieur de Beauchamp, --the disappearance of half a dozen at atime, --the peculiar noises heard from her side of the closet. 

"Truly, this is the back shop of Monsieur de Beauchamp, " said she, asshe stumbled upon a box. "If I only had a candle or a match. "

She felt the box, which was almost square, and was so heavy she couldscarcely raise one end of it. 

She groped along the wall, where similar boxes were piled up, andbegan to wonder what on earth Monsieur de Beauchamp had stored therein his back shop. 

A startling suggestion stole into her mind, --perhaps it was----

She hastily sought the door by which she had entered, and in herexcitement she stumbled against it. 

The door closed with a snap. 

Mlle. Fouchette was not afraid of being alone in the dark, yet shetrembled nervously from head to foot. 

She knew that the key was on the inside!

Then she remembered that other door only a few feet away with its keyon the inside and with Jean Marot on the outside. And she trembledmore than ever. 

What would Jean think of her?

Of course, she knew he would be likely to force the closet door; butwhen he had found her missing, --what then? Would he be angry? Would henot suspect some trick? Would he persevere till he found her?

It was all about Jean, --of herself she scarcely thought, only so faras the effect might come through him. All at once she felt rather thanheard the dull sound of the breaking door beyond. 

"Ah! he has broken the door. He will come! He has discovered it!"

She beat the walls with her small fists, --kicked the unresponsivestone with her thin little shoes, --her blows gave out no sound. If sheonly had something to knock with----

She fumbled blindly in the darkness among the boxes. Perhaps--yes, here was one open, and--

"Voilà!"

She laid her hand on a heavy, cylindrical substance like a piece ofiron gas-pipe, only--funny, but it was packed in something likesawdust. 

She tapped smartly on the wall with it--once, twice, thrice--atregular intervals, then listened. 

The two similar raps from the other side showed that she was bothheard and understood. 

"He has found it. Ah! here he is!"

And with her last exclamation Jean appeared, candle in hand, peeringinto the room and at Mlle. Fouchette in the dazed way morecharacteristic of the somnambulist than of one awake and in the fullpossession of his senses. 

"Mon Dieu! mon enfant, what have we here?" he ejaculated as soon as herecovered breath. "What is it? Are you all right? How foolish you are, little one!"

"All right, mon ami. "

And she briefly and rapidly recited her adventures, at the endtriumphantly exhibiting the bit of iron pipe with which she had openedcommunication. 

His face suddenly froze with horror!

"Give it to me!"

He snatched it from her hand excitedly and held it an instant apartfrom his candle. 

"A thousand thunders!" he gasped, at the same time handling the thinggingerly and looking for a place to lay it down. 

"But----"

"It is a dynamite bomb!" he said, hoarsely. 

"Mon Dieu!"

She turned as white as a sheet and staggered backward only to come incontact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this asif she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quitefeminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions. 

"Where did you get this, petite?" he asked. "It is death, --a horribledeath!"

She pointed to the boxes, unable to speak. 

"Dynamite bombs! cartridges! powder and ball!" he declared, as hecasually examined the nearest. "It is a real arsenal!"

"Come, Jean! Let us go!" said the girl, seizing him. "It is dangerous!Your candle! think! Come!"

She dragged him towards the open door. "Ah! to think I beat upon thewall with that--that----"

She shivered like a leaf. 

"You are right, " said he. "The candle is dangerous. I will get mybicycle-lamp and we will investigate this mystery. "

"It is no longer a mystery, " she replied, --"not to me. It is the handof the Duke. "

"It is very singular, " he muttered. "Very curious. "

"It is a fairy romance, " said she, as they passed back through thenarrow opening to Jean's appartement. 

"There is no fairy story about that dynamite, --that, at least, is bothpractical and modern. "

"Oh! I mean this secret passage and all that----"

"Yes; but don't you know, mon enfant, that I first thought it ledto--to your----"

"For shame! Monsieur Jean!"

"I don't know, " said he, shaking his head smilingly. "Monsieur deBeauchamp was a very handsome man. "

"Yes, besides being an ardent servant of the Duc d'Orléans and anartist collector of pictures and bric-à-brac----"

"Especially 'bric-à-brac, '" said Jean, with sarcasm. 

"Anyhow, mon ami, you now know----"

"That I was unjust to you, yes; pardon me! You could know very littleof Beauchamp, since he was able to collect all of this bric-à-bracunder your nose. "

Mlle. Fouchette reddened, thinking, nervously, of what Inspector Loupwould say on that head. Jean saw this color and changed theconversation. 

"Come, now, let us go and explore Monsieur de Beauchamp's articles ofvertu. "

With the bicycle bull's-eye light in hand he led the way back throughthe secret passage, followed closely by the young girl. 

"Monsieur de Beauchamp wasn't the mighty Cæsar in one thing, " saidJean, as he squeezed through the narrow opening in the wall. 

"How is that?"

"He had only lean men about him, --true conspirators. "

"Yes, --it was necessary. "

They found the dark room where all of the munitions of war andcompound assassination were stored. Entering, they inadvertentlyclosed the door behind them. 

"Dame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette. "The key, monsieur! the key!"

"Que diable!"

"How provoking!"

"But we have the dynamite----"

"Ah, çà!"

But somehow Mlle. Fouchette was not as badly frightened at thesituation as one might have the right to expect. She even laughedgayly at their mutual imprisonment. 

"Dynamite!" muttered Jean, --"a throne founded upon dynamite wouldcrumble quickly----"

"Yes, and by dynamite, " said she. 

"Monsieur de Beauchamp was----"

"Is a royalist leader----"

"An assassin!"

"A tool of the Duc d'Orléans. "

"The Duke would never stoop to wholesale murder! Never!"

"It is the way of kings, n'est-ce pas? to shelter themselves fromresponsibility behind their tools?"

"Stop! there must be guns for this ammunition. It must be----"

Before the idea had fairly germinated in his brain Jean discovered adoor that in the candle-light had easily escaped their observation. Itwas at the opposite side of the room from which they had entered. Itwas a narrow door and the key was in the lock. 

"Another way out, " suggested the girl. 

"Surely, petite, since that closet entrance was never meant for aporte-cochère. "

The door opened upon a narrow and dark passage paved with worn tiles. At the end of this passage another door barred the way. An examinationshowed at once that this last had not been used for a long time. Tothe left, however, a mere slit in the stone was seen to involve asteep stair of very much worn steps. Opposite the entrance to thisstairway was a shallow niche in the wall, in which were the remains ofburned candles. 

"Cat stairs, " said Mlle. Fouchette. 

"And the cats have used it a good deal of late, I should judge, " heobserved, carefully examining the entrance in the glare of the lamp. 

"Leads to the roof, probably, " she muttered. 

"Probably. Let us mount. "

"Oh, yes, let us follow the trail. "

The instinct of the woman and the spy was now strong within her. 

The "cat stairs" were closed at the top by a heavy oaken trap securelyfastened within by two iron hooks. 

"It is astonishing!" he said. 

"What?"

"These fastenings, keys, bolts, bars, are all on this side. "

"Which shows merely that they are to be used only from this direction, does it not?"

"Yes, that is plain; but we are now in another building, evidently, --abuilding that must open on some other street than the Rue St. Jacques. "

In the mean time Jean had finally unfastened and forced the trap. Inanother moment he had drawn her through the opening and they stoodunder a cloudless sky. 

"Ah!" she murmured. 

"We are free, at least, mon enfant. "

She was not thinking of that. The silence, the glorious vault ofstars, the----

"S-sh!"

"It's the bell of Sainte Geneviève, " he whispered, crossing himselfinvoluntarily. 

"Cover the light, Monsieur Jean. These roofs have scores of eyes----"

"And a couple of prowlers might be the target for a score of bullets, eh? True enough!"

"Midnight!"

She had been counting the strokes of the clock, the sound of whichcame, muffled and sullen, from the old square belfry beyond thePanthéon. 

The roofs of this old quarter presented a curious conglomeration ofthe architectural monstrosities of seven centuries. It was a fantastictumult of irregular shapes that only took the semblance of humandesign upon being considered in detail. As a whole they seemed theresult of a great upheaval of nature--the work of some powerfuldemon--rather than that of human architectural conception. Theseconfused and frightful shapes stretched from street to street, --stiffsteeps of tile and moss-covered slate, massive chimneys and blackenedchimney-pots, great dormer-windows and rows of mere slits and holes ofglass betraying the existence of humanity within, walls and copings ofrusty stone running this way and that and stopping abruptly, mysterious squares of even blackness representing courts andbreathing-spaces, --up hill and down dale, under the canopy of stars, as far as the eye could reach!

And here, close at hand, and towering aloft in the entrancinggrandeur of celestial beauty, rose the dome of the Panthéon, --soclose, indeed, and so grandly great and beautiful in contrast with allthe rest, that it seemed the stupendous creation of the angels. 

"You are cold, petite?" he whispered. 

She had shivered and drawn a little closer to him. 

"No, " replied the girl, glancing around her, "but it is frightful. "

"What?"

"Oh, these sombre roofs. "

"Bah! petite, " he responded lightly, "ghosts don't promenade the roofsof Paris. "

"They'd break their ghostly necks if they did. "

"Come! and let us be careful not to break ours. Allons!"

They stole softly along the adjoining wall that ended at a court. There was clearly no thoroughfare in this direction. Coming back onthe trail he examined the stone attentively, she meanwhile shading thelight with the folds of her dress. It was comparatively easy to notethe recent wear of feet in the time-accumulation of rust and dirt anddry moss of these old stones. In a few moments he discovered that thetracks turned off between two high-pitched roofs towards the Panthéon. As from one of these slopes grinned a double row of dormer-windows, itseemed incredible that any considerable number of prowlers might longescape observation. 

"But they may be vacant, " said the girl, when Jean had suggested thecontingency. 

"That is quite true. "

So they stealthily crept rather than walked on, the end of the gutterabutting on another court. The depression was marked here by virginmoss. 

"It is very extraordinary, " growled Jean, entirely at a loss toaccount for the abrupt close of the trail. There was no way out ofthis trough save by climbing over one of these steep roofs, except----

"The window, perhaps, " she whispered. 

"True!"

Rapidly moving the lamp along the bottom of the gutter, Jean stopped. 

"There it is!"

She pointed to the window above them with suppressed excitement. 

There were almost imperceptible cleats cleverly laid across thecorrugated tiling; for the roof had a pitch of fifty degrees, and thecasement was half-way up the slope. 

"It must be so, " he said. "Wait!"

With the lantern concealed beneath his coat he scrambled noiselesslyup and examined the window. It was not fastened. Whoever had passedhere last had come this way. He opened it a little, then wider. 

"Come! Quickly!"

Even as he called to her Jean threw open wide the windows, --whichfolded from within, like all French windows--and entered, leavingMlle. Fouchette to follow at will. That damsel's catlike nature made aroof a mere playground, and she was almost immediately behind him. 

"Mon Dieu! What is this?"

They had descended four steps to the floor, and now the exclamationburst from them simultaneously. 

For a minute they stood, half breathless, looking about them. 

They seemed to be in an empty room embracing the entire unfinishedgarret of a house, gable to gable. The space was all roof andfloor, --that is, the roof rose abruptly from the floor on two sides tothe comb above. 

As the eye became accustomed to the place, it first took in the smallsquare boxes, some of which had evidently been unpacked or preparedfor that process, the litter being scattered about the floor, --theboxes similar to those stored in the dark room below. There wereroughly constructed platforms beneath all of the windows, with stepsleading up to the same. Beneath these platforms and along the whole ofone side of the room were wooden arm-racks glistening with arms of thelatest model. Belts, cartridge-boxes, bayonets, swords, an immenseassortment of military paraphernalia, lay piled on the floor at oneend of the room. 

At the opposite end was mounted on a swivel a one-pound Maximrapid-firer, the wall in front of it being pierced to the last brick. 

A few blows, and lo! the muzzle of the modern death-dealer!

Along the lower edge of the roof towards the Panthéon might have beenfound numerous similar places, requiring only a thrust to becomeloopholes for prostrate riflemen. 

The most cursory glance from the windows above showed that thesecommanded the Place du Panthéon and Rue Soufflot, --the scene of bloodystreet battles of every revolutionary epoch. 

Fifty active men from this vantage could have rendered either streetor barricade untenable, or as support to a barricade in the Place duPanthéon have made such a barricade impregnable to exposed troops. 

"It is admirable!" cried Jean, lost in contemplation of the strategicimportance of the position. 

"It is wonderful, but----"

"Artillery? Yes, " he interrupted, anticipating her reasoning; "butartillery could not be elevated to command this place from the street, and as for Mont Valérien----"

"The Panthéon----"

"Yes, --exactly, --they would never risk the Panthéon. Even thePrussians spared that. "

"Oh, Monsieur Jean, see!"

She had discovered a white silk flag embroidered with the lilies ofFrance. 

"The wretches! They would restore the hated emblem of the Louis! Thisis too much!" he exclaimed, in wrath. 

"It is the way of the king, n'est-ce pas?"

She looked at him curiously. 

"But the Duc d'Orléans should know that the people of France willnever abandon the tricolor, --never!"

"The people of France are fools!"

"True!" he rejoined, hotly, "and I am but one of them!"

"Ah, Monsieur Jean! Now you are uttering the words of wisdom. Recallthe language of Monsieur de Beauchamp, --that it is necessary to makeuse of everybody and everything going the way of the king, --tending tore-establish the throne!"

"The throne! I will have none of it. I'm a republican!"

She smiled. "And as a republican, what is your first duty now?"

"Why, to inform the proper authorities of our discovery. "

"Good! Let us go!"

"Allons!" he responded, briskly. 

"But how will we get out?"

"How about this door?"

He had brought the rays of the lamp to bear upon a door at the gableopposite the Maxim gun. It was bolted and heavily barred, but thesefastenings were easily removed. 

As anticipated, this door led to a passage and to stairs which, inturn, led down to the street. They closed the door with as littlenoise as possible, carefully locking it and bringing away the key. 

A light below showed that the lower part of this house was inhabited, probably by people innocent of the terrible drama organized abovetheir heads. But the slightest noise might arouse these people, and insuch a case the Frenchman is apt to shoot first and make inquiriesafterwards. However, once in the street, they could go around to theirown rooms without trouble. It was worth the risk. 

The stairs, fortunately, had a strip of carpeting, so they soon foundthemselves safely at the street door. To quietly open this was but thework of a few seconds, when----

They stepped into the arms of Inspector Loup and his agents. 

CHAPTER XIX

"Pardieu!" exclaimed Inspector Loup, who never recognized his agentsofficially outside of the Préfecture; "it is La Savatière!"

Mlle. Fouchette trembled a little. 

"And Monsieur Marot! Why, this is an unexpected pleasure, " continuedthe police official. 

"Then the pleasure is all on one side, " promptly responded Jean, whowas disgusted beyond measure. 

Inspector Loup regarded the pair with his fishy eyes half closed. Foronce in his life he was nonplussed. Nay, if anything could be said tobe surprising to Inspector Loup, this meeting was unexpected andsurprising. But he was too clever a player to needlessly expose theweakness of his hand. 

Mlle. Fouchette's eyes avoided scrutiny. She had given Jean one quick, significant glance and then looked demurely around, as if the mattermerely bored her. 

Jean understood that glance and was dumb. 

Inspector Loup's waiting tactics did not work. 

"So my birdies must coo at midnight on the house-tops, " he finallyremarked. 

"Well, monsieur, " retorted the young man, "is there any law againstthat?"

"Where's the lantern?"

"Here, " said Jean, turning the bull's-eye on the face of theinspector. 

"Bicycle. Is your wheel above, monsieur?" This ironically. 

"Not exactly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. "

"Now, Monsieur Jean, " put in Mlle. Fouchette, "if Monsieurl'Inspecteur has no further questions to ask----"

"Not so fast, mademoiselle, " sharply interrupted the officer. "Justwait a bit; for, while I do not claim that roof-walking at midnight isunpardonable in cats and lovers, it is especially forbidden to enterother people's houses when they are asleep. "

Mlle. Fouchette's nervousness did not escape the little fishy eyes. While it was already evident that Monsieur l'Inspecteur was talking atrandom, it was morally certain that he would smoke them out. 

"And two persons armed with a dark-lantern, coming out of a house nottheir own, at this time of night, " continued the inspector, "are underlegitimate suspicion until they can explain. "

Mlle. Fouchette made a sign to Jean that he was to hold his tongue. 

"Now, none of that, mademoiselle!" cried the inspector, angrily. 

He rudely separated the couple, and, taking charge of the girlhimself, turned Jean over to four of his agents who were near at hand. 

"We'll put you where you'll have time to reflect, " he said. 

Mlle. Fouchette was inspired. She saw that it was not a souricière. Ifthe inspector knew what was above, he would not have left theentrances and exits unguarded. To be absolutely sure of this, shewaited until they had passed the Rue St. Jacques. 

"Now is my opportunity to play quits, " she said to herself, and herface betrayed the intensity of her purpose. 

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur!"

"Well?"

"I would like a private word with you, please. "

"What's that? Oh, it's of no use, " he replied. 

"To your advantage, monsieur. "

"And yours, eh?"

"Undoubtedly, " she frankly said. 

They walked on a few steps. Then the inspector raised his hand forthose in the rear to stop. 

They soon stood in the dark entrance of a wine-shop, the inspector ofthe secret police and his petite moucharde, both as sharp and hard asflint. 

"Now, out with it, you little vixen!" he commanded, assuming hisbrutal side. "Let us have no trifling. You know me!"

"And you know _me_, monsieur!" she retorted, with the first show ofanger in her voice. 

"Speak!"

"I said I had important information, " she began, calmly. But it waswith an effort, for he had shaken her roughly. 

"Yes!" he put in; "and see that you make good, mon enfant!"

He was suspicious that this was some clever ruse to escape her presentdilemma. Monsieur l'Inspecteur certainly knew Mlle. Fouchette. 

"Information that you do not seem to want, monsieur----"

"Will you speak?"

"I have the right to reveal it only to the Ministry, " she coldlyreplied. 

"Is--is it so important as that?" he asked. But his tone had changed. She had made a move as if the interview were over. 

"So important that for you to be the master of it will make you masterof the Ministry and----"

"Bah!" he ejaculated, contemptuously. He was master of them already. 

"And the mere publicity of it would send your name throughout thecivilized world in a day!"

"Speak up, then; don't be afraid----"

"It is such that, no matter what you may do in the future, nothingwould give you greater reputation. "

"But, ma fillette, "--it was the utmost expression of his officialconfidence, --"and for you, more money, eh?"

"No, no! It is not money!"

She spoke up sharply now. 

"Good!" said he, "for you won't get it. "

"It is not a question of money, monsieur. If I----"

"There is no 'if' about it!" he exclaimed, irritated at her bargainingmanner and again flying into a passion. "You'll furnish theinformation you're paid to furnish, and without any 'question' or'if, ' or I'll put you behind the bars. Yes, sacré bleu! on a diet ofbread and water!"

He was angry that she had the whip hand and that she was driving him. 

"Certainly, monsieur, "--and her tone was freezingly polite, --"but thenI will furnish it to the Ministry, as I'm specially instructed in suchcases to do. "

"Then why do you come to me with it?" he demanded. 

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I would do you a favor if you would letme----"

"For a substantial favor in return!"

"Precisely. "

"Ugh! of course!"

"Of course, monsieur, --partly. Partly because you have been kind tome, generally, and I would now reciprocate that kindness. "

"So! Well, mademoiselle, now we understand each other, how much?"

"Monsieur?"

"I say how much money do you want?"

"But, monsieur--no, we do not understand each other. I said it is nota question of money. If I wanted money I could get it at theMinistry, --yes, thousands of francs!"

"Perhaps you overrate your find, mademoiselle, " he suggested, but withunconcealed interest. 

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. 

"It ought to be very important indeed, " she continued, "equallyimportant to you in its suppression, monsieur. "

"Ah!"

The fishy eyes were very active. 

"And who besides you possesses this secret?"

"Monsieur Marot. "

"So! He alone?"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"In a word, mademoiselle, then, what is it that you want?"

"Liberty!"

The inspector started back, confused. 

"What's that?" he growled, warily. 

"I said 'liberty. ' I mean freedom from this service! I'm tired, monsieur! I would be free! I would live!"

The veteran looked at her first with incredulity, then astonishment, then pity. He began to think the girl was really crazy, and that herstory was probably all a myth. He suddenly turned the lantern fromunder his cloak upon her upturned face, and he saw that which thrilledhim, but which he could not understand. 

It was the first time within Inspector Loup's experience that he hadfound any one wanting to quit--actually refusing good money toquit--the Secret System, having once enjoyed its delightfulatmosphere. 

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"

But he was so much involved in his mental struggle with this new phaseof detective life that he did not answer. He had figured it out. 

"So! I think I understand now. But why quit? You have struck somethingbetter; but, surely, mademoiselle, one can be in love and yet do one'sduty to the State. "

"Monsieur!"

"Oh, well; you can resign, can't you? Nobody hinders you. " And be afool! was in Monsieur l'Inspecteur's tone. 

"Yes; but that is not all, monsieur. I want it with your free consentand written quittance, --and more, your word of honor that I will neverbe molested by you or your agents, --that I will be as if I had neverbeen!"

"And if I agree to all this----"

"I shall prove my good faith. "

"When?"

"At once!"

"Good! Then we _do_ understand each other, " he said, taking her handfor the first time in his life. 

"I trust you, monsieur. "

"You have my word. But you will permit me to give you a last word offatherly advice before I cease to know you. Keep that gay young loverof yours out of mischief; he will never again get off as easily as hedid the other day. "

"Thanks, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" said Mlle. Fouchette, very gladindeed now that the lantern was not turned on her. 

"Allons!" he cried, looking about him. "And my men, mademoiselle?"

"I would put two at the door where you met us--out of sight--and leavetwo in the Rue St. Jacques where we shall enter, --until you see foryourself, --the coast is clear. "

"Good!" said he, and he gave the necessary orders. 

Inspector Loup issued from the Rue Soufflot entrance an hour laterwith a look of keen satisfaction. 

Between the royalists on the one hand, and the republicans on theother, there were gigantic possibilities for an official of InspectorLoup's elasticity of conscience. 

He had first of all enjoined strict silence on the part of Mlle. Fouchette and Jean Marot. 

"For the public safety, " he said. 

During his inspection of the premises he had found opportunity tosecretly transfer an envelope to the hand of Mlle. Fouchette. For thechief of the Secret System was too clever not to see the shoe thatpinched Mlle. Fouchette's toes, and, while despising her weakness, wasloyal to his obligation. 

As soon as Mlle. Fouchette had bidden Jean good-night and foundherself in her own room, she took this envelope from her pocket anddrew near the lamp. 

It was marked "To be opened to-morrow. "

She felt it nervously. It crackled. She squeezed it between her thumband forefinger. She held it between her eyes and the light. In vainthe effort to pierce its secrets. 

The old tower clock behind the Panthéon mumbled two. 

"Dame!" she said, "it is to-morrow!"

And she hastily ripped the missive open. 

Something bluish white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up. 

It was a new, crisp note of five hundred francs!

She trembled so that she sank into the nearest chair, crushing thepaper in her hand. Her little head was so dizzy--really--she couldscarcely bring it to bear upon anything. 

Except one thing, --that this unexpected wealth stood between her andwhat an honest young woman dreads most in this world!

The tears slowly trickled down the pale cheeks, --tears for which itis to be feared only the angels in heaven gave Mlle. Fouchette duecredit. 

Suddenly she started up in alarm. But it was only some belated lodger, staggering on the stairs. She examined the lock on her door andresolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of herbed. 

The fear which accompanies possession was new to her. 

Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out thebank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everythingprinted on it, and kissed it again and again. 

One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she couldtell no one of her good fortune. Not that Mlle. Fouchette was bavarde, but happiness unshared is only half happiness. 

She went to the thin place in the wall and listened. Jean was snoring. 

She could look him in the face now. 

It was a lot of money to have at one time, --with what she had alreadymore than she had ever possessed at once in her life. 

Freedom and fortune!

She picked up the envelope which had been hastily discarded for thefortune it had contained. 

Hold! here was something more! She saw that it was her quittance, --herfreedom! Her face, already happy and smiling, became joyous. 

It was merely a lead-pencil scrawl on a leaf from Inspector Loup'snote-book saying that----

As she read it her head swam. 

"Oh! mon Dieu! It is impossible! Not Fouchette? I am not--and Mlle. Remy is my sister! Ah! Mère de Dieu! And Jean--oh! grand Dieu!"

She choked with her emotions. 

"I shall die! What shall I do? What shall I do? And Lerouge, myhalf-brother! I shall surely die!"

With the paper crumpled in her folded hands she sank to her kneesbeside the big chair and bowed her head. Her heart was full tobursting, but in her deep perplexity she could only murmur, "Whatshall I do? what shall I do?"

 * * * * *

Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hearthe clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rathermetallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He hadnever heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle. Fouchette:

 "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 gris Y tiennent leur cour polissonne. "

"Oh! oui da!" he cried from his bed. "Yes! and the cats sometimes getarrested, too, hein?"

The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a smallblonde 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 wasdressing, --he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home, --"thelittle one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well asguide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too. "

He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neatcoquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the airwith their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchetteherself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up, but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morningwrapper. 

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 milkbill, --deux francs cinquante, and gave that épicière a piece of mymind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs à la coque; for, while theeggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to haveit, 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-cinqcentimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra, which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of thatcoffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, monami, --only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty apound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq. "

It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their jointhousehold. He paid about as much attention as usual, --which was noneat all, --his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuinecomfort 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 bornthis morning!"

He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had notcaught her real meaning. 

"From the marguerites----"

"Ah, çà! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't theysweet? How I love the flowers!"

"But I never saw such a remarkable effect, somehow. They are onlyflowers, and----"

"'Only flowers'! Say, now!"

"Still, it is curious, " he added, resuming his coffee and rolls, as ifthe subject were not worth an argument or was too intangible tograsp. He could not account for the change in Mlle. Fouchette. 

And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he washe would not have been able to understand the divine process by whichhuman happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance. 

"Mon ami, " said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admirationgave 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, frankletter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger andexpressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend. 

"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your politicalopinions and----"

"Oh!"

"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with theseconspirators. "

"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 acknowledgmentof political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law. 

In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed thebreakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace. 

"It is very singular, " he repeated to himself after she had departedupon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl--really, Idon'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 thedark shadow of the Préfecture loom up ahead of her, and her face, already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as shethought of her moral freedom. 

The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-passers, butthis did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching arecognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette. 

The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electricshock. She stopped short, --so suddenly that those who immediatelyfollowed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavilyveiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swiftglance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elasticstep and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette. 

"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice, --a voice whichstartled those who dodged the physical shock, --and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "Sheloves!"

It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to thePréfecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la NotreDame. 

Ah, çà!

And after years of servitude, --from childhood, --some of it a servitudeof the most despicable nature, --she had at last struck off theshackles!

No, --she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whomshe feared and hated for one she loved--adored!

Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly andboldly past the very front door of the Préfecture, --"like any otherlady, " 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. Heobserved 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 enterthe Préfecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none. 

Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring toaccost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence. 

It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in thedance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yardsbefore a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with anoath. 

"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems to be a femininechase. " And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt. 

Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Préfecture andmade straight for the Hôtel Dieu. 

Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidentlygrowing more and more agitated. 

And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from thePréfecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossingthe broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three goingthe same way would not have attracted attention. 

Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking aletter from her bosom. 

"That letter! Sacré! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiledwoman, 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 consideredproof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ. 

The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette'sosculatory 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 eyeablaze with wrath. 

"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Préfecture!"

"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to freeherself 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 gripfor 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 tosweat 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 thestreets! Understand?"

Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene, passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent inthe letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis dela Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weepingand cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Préfecture. 

CHAPTER XX

A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to allappearances 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 ofcourse. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less usefulto a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, andother dire uncertainties. 

As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritabilityon their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And asdoting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon becomefixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. Fouchette naturally became theservant of the somewhat masterful Jean Marot. 

She cheerfully accepted these exactions of his variable temper alongwith the responsibility for the economical administration of hisdomestic affairs. 

But even the brightest and most willing of servants cannot alwaysanticipate what is in the master's mind; so Jean had come to givingorders to Mlle. Fouchette. He had not yet beaten her, but the carelessobserver might have ventured the opinion that this would come in time. 

It is the character of Frenchmen to beat women, --to stab them in theback one day when they are bored with them. The Paris press furnishesdaily examples of this sort of chivalry. As a rule, the life of wifeor mistress in France is a condition little short of slavery. 

The mere arrangement of words is unimportant to the woman whoanticipates blows, and who, doubtless, after the fierce fashion of theLatins, would love more intensely when these blows fell thickest andheaviest. As for being ordered about and scolded, it was a recognitionof 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 alsolooking solely to that end. 

Since that memorable night when one brief pencilled sentence fromInspector Loup had bestowed upon her a new birth she found doublereason for every sacrifice. She not only trampled her love underfootwith new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards thereconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge. 

Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain theyoung man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescentshe ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported toJean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom shehad formerly expressed only dislike. 

Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct, --a woman isnever bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. She neverasked to see Lerouge, --never sent in her name to him, --but merelyinquired, saying she was sent by one of his old friends. As she hadintended, the name of this friend, Jean Marot, had been finallycarried to Henri Lerouge. 

One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervousthat it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of oneof the great stone columns. She had watched for this opportunity fordays; 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 sohappy! and I, --why should I not be happy also? I love him, --I loveher, --and if they love each other, --she can help it no more thanhe, --it would be impossible!"

Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remydisappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herselfover and over again, as if the resolution she had taken requiredconstant bracing and strengthening. 

And it did require it. 

For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut outfor herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist. 

Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as isseen, --it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owedher reputation--of the feline claws and ready boot-heel--had vanishedand left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally shehad not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herselfon the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soulwere absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in herself-abasement. 

Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther, --would have deliberately andgladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar ofher affections. She had no moral scruples, being only a poor littleheathen among the heathen. 

Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jeanhad not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended bysecretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superiorto other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to theimage in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her completedevotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal andprostrated herself more humbly. 

Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar. 

As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he reallydeserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and acommon type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fellswoop, constructed a calendar to suit themselves, and worshippedReason 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 littleFouchette that only the most extraordinary circumstances would seem toexcuse him. 

And the circumstances were quite extraordinary. Jean was sufferingfrom personal notoriety. Unseen hands were tossing him about andpulling him to pieces. Unknown purposes held him as in a vice. 

Within the last two weeks his mail had grown from two to some twentyletters a day, --most of which letters were not only of a stronglyincendiary nature, but expressed a wholly false conception of hispolitical position and desires. He was being inundated byindiscriminate praise and abuse. There were reams of well-meant adviceand quires of threats of violence. 

Among these letters had been some enclosing money and drafts to aconsiderable amount, --to be used in a way which was plainly apparent. From a distinguished royalist he had received in a single cover thesum of ten thousand francs "for the cause. " From another had come fivethousand francs for his "personal use. " Various smaller sumsaggregated not less than ten thousand francs more, most of which wasto be expended at discretion in the restoration of a "good" and"stable" and "respectable" government to unhappy France. Besides cashwere drafts and promises, --the latter reaching unmeasured sums. Andinterspersed with all these were strong hints of political prefermentthat would have turned almost any youthful head less obstinate thanthat which ornamented the broad shoulders of Jean Marot. 

At first Jean was amused, then he was astonished. Finally he becameindignant and angry to the bursting-point. 

It was several days before he could adequately comprehend what hadprovoked this furious storm, with its shower of money and warningflashes of wrath and rumblings of violence. Then it became clear thathe was being made the political tool of the reactionary combinationthen laying the axe at the root of the republican tree. TheOrléanists, Bonapartists, Anti-Semites, and their allies were quick tosee the value of a popular leader in the most turbulent andunmanageable quarter of Paris. The Quartier Latin was second only toMontmartre as a propagating bed for revolution; the fiery youth of thegreat schools were quite as important as the butchers of La Villette. 

The conclusions of the young leader were materially assisted andhastened by the flattering attention with which he was received by theyoung men wearing royalist badges, and by the black looks from themore timid republicans. He thereupon avoided the streets of thequarter, and devoted his time to answering such letters as boresignature and address. He sought to disabuse the public mind, so faras the writers were concerned, by declaring his adherence to therepublic, and by returning the money so far as possible. 

Jean Marot had now for the first time, with many others, turned hisattention to the revelations in the Dreyfus case as appeared in the_Figaro_, and saw with amazement the use being made of a whollyfictitious crisis to destroy French liberty. He was appalled at thesedisclosures. Not that they demonstrated the innocence of a condemnedman, but because they showed the utter absence of conscience on thepart of his accusers and the criminal ignorance of the militaryleaders on whom France relied in the hour of public danger. For thefirst time he saw, what the whole civilized world outside of Francehad seen with surprise and indignation, that the conviction of CaptainDreyfus rested upon the testimony of a staff-officer of noble bloodwho lived openly and shamelessly on the immoral earnings of hismistress, and who was the self-acknowledged agent of a maison detoleration on commission. In the person of this distinguished memberof the "condotteri" was centred the so-called "honor of the army. " Asfor the so-called "evidence, " no police judge of England or Americawould have given a man five days on it. 

Matters were at this stage when one morning about a fortnight sincethe day Mlle. Fouchette had changed masters they reached thebursting-point. Jean suddenly jumped from his seat where he had beenlooking over his mail and broke into a torrent of invective. 

"Dame!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coming in from the kitchen in the act ofmanipulating a plate with a towel, --"surely, Monsieur Jean, it can'tbe as bad as that!"

"Mille tonnerres!" cried Jean, kicking the chair viciously, --"it'sworse!"

"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 aspy----"

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 furnishprivately any information in connection with the recent discoveries athis appartement which might be useful to the government, --especiallyin the nature of correspondence, etc. 

As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Télégraphes andhad not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, goingand coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who neveruse the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the SecretSystem, prefer direct communication. 

"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused theletter. 

"It is damnable!" said Jean. 

"Still, it is his business to know. "

"It is a miserable business, --a dishonorable business! And Monsieurl'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 thefloor. 

She laughed. "But that is politics, " she remarked. 

"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if weare really fit for self-government; don't you know?"

"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly, " she replied, with a meaningsmile, --"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 themother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelterand 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 hasonly read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, monami!"

"Well!" sighed the young man, --"let us see, --a telegram? I hadn'tnoticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father canwrite his son. "

He read in silence, then passed it to her with a shrug of theshoulders. 

"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 somethingof 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 worldof 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. Iwill 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 hercountenance. 

"I don't see anything so strange or horrible about that, " said Jean. "I did not propose to serve _you_ for 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 shemust be present--were widely different propositions according to Mlle. Fouchette; for she had hailed the first with delight and the second inutter 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 isnot for myself. He probably does not know me. "

"What if he does? It strikes me that you are growing mighty nice oflate. I don't see what Lerouge has to do with you, --and you havepretended----"

"Pretended? Oh, monsieur! I beg----"

"Very well, " he interrupted. "We can go out to a restaurant, Isuppose, since you don't seem to want to take that trouble for me. "

"Oh, monsieur!" she protested, earnestly, "it is not that; I would beglad, 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 recognizethe--the----"

"Savatière----"

"Yes; what, then? But, say! Fouchette, you shall wear that prettybonne costume I got you. Hein?"

"But, mon ami, --mon cher ami! I'd rather not do it, " she faltered. "If Mademoiselle Remy should hear of it----"

"Bah! I know Lerouge. He'd think you my servant, my model. And haveyou 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 ofunsalaried servitude, now insisted upon her dressing the part. 

He had paid her no empty compliment when he said that she looked herbest as a maid. He had fitted her out for an evening at the Bullierfor twenty-five francs. In the Quakerish garb of a French bonne shehad never looked so demurely sweet in her life. The short skirt showeda pair of small feet and neat round ankles. Her spotless apronaccentuated the delicacy of the slender waist. And with a cute whitelace cap perched coquettishly over the drooping blonde hair--well, anybody could see that Mlle. Fouchette (become simply Fouchette bythis metamorphosis) was really a pretty little woman. 

And Jean kissed her on both cheeks and laughed at her because theyreddened, 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 charmingwhen they played peasant at Petit Trianon; for it is a curious factthat many women show to better physical advantage in the simplecostume of a neat servant than in the silks and diamonds of themistress. 

As for Fouchette, she was truly artistic, and she knew it. Theknowledge that Jean comprehended this and admired her caused her eyesto shine and her blood to circulate more quickly. And a woman would bemore than mortal who is not to be consoled by the consciousness of asuccessful toilet. 

Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs andbroken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothingwhether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now, --ah! it was a crueltest 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 touchof her hands! Often, --yes; often!

For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might--whynot? 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 bysuffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow thechosen path to the end. 

"How charming you look, Fouchette!" he exclaimed, when she appeared inthe evening. 

"Thanks, monsieur. "

She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face waswreathed 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 youin that costume. "

He had made several sketches of her head, she serving as a model forMlle. 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 nearlytime. "

She had set out the table with the best their mutual resourcesafforded. She had run up and down the street after whatever seemednecessary earlier in the day. Now that final arrangement had come, nothing seemed quite satisfactory. She changed this, replaced thatwith something else, ran backward a moment to take in the ensemble, then changed things back again. She had the exquisite Frenchperception of the incongruous in form and color. Between times she wasdiving in and out of the little kitchen, where the soup was simmeringand where a chicken from the nearest rôtisserie was being thoroughlywarmed up. And in her lively comings and goings she wore a brightsmile and kept up the incessant purr, purr, purr of a vivacioustongue. 

"And you must have champagne!" said she, reproachfully. 

He had come in with the bottles under his arm. "You should have let mepurchase 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 justiceto his extravagance. He laughed. 

"It is an important occasion, " said he. "But, really, you are simplyastonishing, little one. "

"Là, là, là!"

Jean had an artistic sense, and Mlle. Fouchette now appealed to it. Hewatched her skipping about the place and tried to reconcile thissweet, bright-eyed, light-hearted creature with the woman he had knownas "La Savatière. "

"Que diable! but she is--well, what in the name of all the goddesseshas come over the girl, anyhow? It can't be that Lerouge--yet shedidn't want to have him see her here. "

Conscious of this scrutiny, Fouchette would have been compelled toretreat to the kitchen on some pretext if she had not got thisoccasional shelter by necessity. She was so happy. Her heart was solight she could not be quite certain if she were really on the earthor not. Never had Jean looked so handsome to her. 

"Dame! It is nothing, " she said and repeated over and over toherself, --"it is nothing; and yet I am surely the happiest girl in theworld. Oh, when he looks at me with his beautiful eyes like that Ifeel as if I could fly! Mon Dieu! but if he touched me now I shouldfaint! 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 fellon 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 havedropped there when she opened the vestibule door. 

The elderly image of Jean Marot stood before her. Somewhat stouter offigure and broader of feature, with full grayish beard and moustachethat concealed the outlines of the lower face, but still such astriking likeness of father to son that even one less versed in thehuman physiognomy than Mlle. Fouchette must have at once recognizedMarot père. The deeply recessed eyes looked darker and seemed to burnmore fiercely than Jean's, and more accurately suggested Lerouge. Indeed, to the casual observer the man might have been the father ofeither of the two young men. In bearing and attire the figure was thatof the prosperous French manufacturer. His voice was coldly harsh andimperious. 

"So! mademoiselle!"

He paused in the vestibule and gazed searchingly at the tremblinglittle woman with a fierce glare that made her feel as if she werebeing shrivelled up where she stood. 

"So! May I inquire whether I am on the threshold of Monsieur JeanMarot's appartement or that of his--his----"

He was evidently making an effort to preserve his calmness, but thewords 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 hadrecognized 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 apride sustained by obstinacy and bitterness. The sting of his father'sletter was fresh, and he nerved himself for further insults. Nor hadhe to wait long, for his father advanced upon him as he retired intothe 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 sonwithout further words, but he found Mlle. Fouchette between them. 

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now, --notnow!"

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 itin hot blood and hard words? Take a little time, --there is plenty andto spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will younot? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? Andremember, 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 urgedMarot senior. Then she insisted upon taking his hat. A man with hishat off is not so easily roused to anger as he is with it on, nor canone 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'sbelligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, thewine----

"I am honored, monsieur, " he said to his son, sarcastically, "though Ihad 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 royalwelcome. Yet there are three plates----"

"That was for Fouchette, " said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "Youwill be welcome at my humble table, father. "

"Fouchette, "--he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making apretence of arranging the table, --"and so this is Fouchette, eh? Andyour humble table, eh?"

The irascible old gentleman regarded both of the adjuncts of life degarçon with a bitter smile. Still it was something like a smile, andthe 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 somesly allusion to himself and son. "And will you be good enough to speakfor this dummy here and inform me who is to be reconciled and what thedevil you've got to do with the operation?"

"To be sure!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, with affected gayety. "Only Imust begin at the last first. I'm the next-door neighbor of MonsieurJean, your son, and I take care of his rooms for him--for aconsideration. 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 the reconciliation of two men whowere once friends than would be violent words?" she asked, withspirit. 

"Who pays for it? It depends upon who pays for it!" He tried to wardoff the conclusion by hurling this at both of them. 

Jean reddened. He knew quite well the insinuation. It is not anunusual 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 theyoung 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 tosmother her indignation. 

"Come to the point!" retorted the elder Marot, impatiently. "Thewoman! 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 figurecontemptuously--"this grisette ménagère! You are not such a fool asto----"

"Oh! no, no, no, no!" hastily interrupted Mlle. Fouchette, with greatagitation. "Oh, no, monsieur! Think not that! She is an angel! I amnothing to him, --nothing! Only a poor little friend, --a servant, monsieur, --one who wishes him well and would do and give anything tosee 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 cameand went in her now downcast face, --the one with a puzzledastonishment, 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 momentarilyrelieve 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 whomI owe reparation----"

The two men studied each other in silence for the few seconds thatfollowed, and Jean saw something like aroused curiosity and wondermentin his father's face, --something that had suddenly taken the place ofanger. 

Mlle. Fouchette had anticipated the coming of Lerouge with quite adifferent sentiment to that which overpowered Jean. The latter saw init only the ruin of his most cherished hopes. Fouchette, on the otherhand, with the quicker and surer intuition of the woman, believed thetime now ripe for the reconciliation of not only Jean and Lerouge, butof father and son. It would be impossible for Jean and his father toquarrel before this third party. Time would be gained. And then, werenot the two affairs one? The straightening out of the tangle betweenthe friends must carry with it the better understanding between Jeanand his father. 

As to herself, the girl had not one thought. She was completely liftedout of self, --carried away with the intentness of her solicitude forJean's future. 

The situation appealed to her sharpest instincts. Its possibilitiespassed 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; theother 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 wallinstinctively, as if needing more substantial support than her limbs. Her throat seemed parched, so that when she would have spoken theresult was merely a spasmodic gasp. Even the friendly semi-darkness ofthe little antechamber failed to hide her confusion from her visitors. 

Then, recovering her self-possession by a violent effort, she reopenedthe inner door and announced, feebly, --

"Monsieur Lerouge, --Mademoiselle Remy!"

CHAPTER XXI

Fortunately for Mlle. Fouchette, Jean's astonishment and temporaryconfusion at the unexpected apparition of the angel of his dreamsextinguished every other consideration. 

Mlle. Remy stood before him--in his appartement--smiling, gracious, apicture of feminine youth and loveliness, --her earnest blue eyeslooking straight into his lustrous brown ones, searching, pénétrante!

He forgot Fouchette; he forgot his friend Henri; he forgot even thepresence of an angry father. 

"Hello, Jean!"

"Henri, mon ami!"

Recalled partially to his senses, Jean embraced his old friend afterthe effusive, dramatic French fashion. They kissed each other'scheeks, as if they were brothers who had been long parted. 

"We will begin again, Henri, " said Jean, --"from this moment we willbegin again. Forgive me----"

"There!" cried Henri, "let us not go into that. We have both of usneed of forgiveness, --I most of all. As you say, let us begin again. And in making a good start, permit me to present you to my sisterAndrée, whom you have met before, and, I have reason to believe, wishto meet again. I have brought her along without consulting you, firstbecause she insists on going where I go, next as an evidence of goodfaith and a pledge of our future good-will. Mademoiselle Remy, moncher ami. "

"No apology is necessary for bringing in the sunshine with you, monami, " said Jean, bending over the small hand. 

"Monsieur Marot is complimentary, " said Mlle. Remy. 

For a moment her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze. 

"But, then, I know him so well, " she quickly added, recovering herwell-bred self-possession, --"yes, brother Henri has often talked aboutyou, and I have seen you----"

There was a faint self-consciousness apparent here. And he knew thatshe was thinking of his lonely watches in front of her place ofresidence. 

They rapidly exchanged the usual courtesies of the day, in the usualelaborate and ornate Parisian fashion. 

Mlle. Fouchette saw every minute detail of this meeting with anexpression of intense concern. She weighed every look and word andgesture in the delicate, tremulous balance of love's understanding. And she realized that Jean's way was clear at last, and at the sametime saw the consequences to herself. 

Well, was not this precisely what she had schemed and labored to bringabout?

Yet she stole away unobserved to the little kitchen, and there turnedher face to the wall and covered her ears with her hands, as if toshut it all out. Her eyes were dry, but her heart was drenched withtears. 

Meanwhile, the elder Marot, who had risen politely upon the entranceof Lerouge and his sister, stood apparently transfixed by the scene. At the sight of Andrée his face assumed a curious mixture of eagernessand uncertainty. Upon the mention of her name the uncertaintydisappeared. A flood of light seemed to burst upon him with theencomiums showered upon his son. 

When Jean turned towards his father--being reminded by a plucking ofthe sleeve--he was confounded to behold a face of smiles instead ofthe one recently clouded with parental wrath. 

"This is m-my father, Monsieur Lerouge, --Mademoiselle----"

"What? Monsieur Marot? Why, this is a double pleasure!" exclaimedLerouge, briskly seizing the outstretched hand. "The father of a nobleson must perforce be a noble father. So Andrée says, and Andrée hasgood intuitions. --Here, Andrée; Jean's father! Just to think ofmeeting him on an occasion like this!"

Neither Lerouge nor his sister knew of the estrangement between Jeanand his home. They had puzzled their heads in vain as to the reasonsfor Jean's retirement to the Rue St. Jacques, but were inclined toattribute it to politics or business reverses. 

"Ah! so this is Monsieur Lerouge, --of Nantes, " remarked the oldgentleman when he got an opening. 

"Of Nantes, " repeated Lerouge. 

"And this is Andrée, --bless your sweet face!--and--and, "--turning aquizzical look on the wondering Jean, --"and 'the woman'!"

It was now Lerouge's turn to be astonished. Jean and the girlattempted to conceal their rising color by casting their eyes upon thefloor. Marot père was master of the situation. 

"Your father was a noted surgeon, " he continued, still holding thegirl's hand. 

"One of the best of his time, " said Henri, proudly. 

"And your mother----"

"Is dead, monsieur. "

"Ah!"

The look of pain that passed swiftly over M. Marot's face wasreflected in an audible sigh. 

"One of the best of women, " he went on, musingly, --"and you are theliving image of your mother when I last saw her. Her name, too----"

"Oh, monsieur!" interrupted Andrée, excitedly, "you knew my mother, then?"

"So well, my dear girl, that I asked her to be my wife. "

"Ah!"

"Oh, monsieur!"

"Father!"

"That is the truth. It is the additional truth that my cousin, thedoctor, got her. "

"My father was your cousin?" asked Lerouge. "Why, I come right by thefamily resemblance, Jean!"

"Yes, " laughingly retorted the latter, "and the family temper. "

"I was not aware that your mother again married, " observed M. Marot. 

"Yes, --Monsieur Frédéric Remy, the father of Andrée, here, " saidHenri. "Alas! neither he nor my mother long survived the loss of theiryounger daughter. "

"Then there is yet another child?"

"Was, " replied the young man, sadly. "For Louise, who was two yearsyounger than Andrée, disappeared one day----"

"Disappeared!"

"Yes; and has never been heard of to this date. She was scarcely threeyears old. Whether she wandered away or was stolen, is dead or living, we do not know. She was never seen again. "

"What a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!" murmured the elderMarot, thinking of the unhappy mother. 

Mlle. Fouchette had reappeared a few moments before, --just in time tohear this family history. But she immediately returned to the kitchen, where she sank upon a low stool and bowed her face in her hands. 

"Fouchette! Here, Fouchette!"

It was Jean's peremptory voice. 

She hastily roused herself. She re-entered the little salon, and upona sign from Jean conducted Henri Lerouge and his sister to Jean'sbedroom, where she assisted Mlle. Remy to remove her hat. For up tothis time the party had been grouped in running conversation withouthaving settled down. 

"How you tremble, child!" exclaimed Andrée, --"and you look so scaredand pale. Is it, then, so bad as all that? What is the matter? Havethey been quarrelling? I don't understand. "

"Andrée!" whispered her brother, warningly. "Remember the salt woman!"

Mlle. Fouchette raised one little nervous finger to her lips andgently closed the door. 

"Pray do not seem to notice, " she whispered. "But you did not know, then, that Jean and his father have been estranged, oh! for months?That the poor young man had been cast off, --forsaken by father andmother----"

"But why?" insisted Mlle. Remy. "It must have been somethingdreadful, --some horrible mistake, I mean. Why should----"

The confusion of Mlle. Fouchette was too evident to press thisquestioning. And it was increased by the curious manner in which thepair regarded her. 

For a single instant she had wavered. She had secretly pressed herlips to her sister's dress, and she felt that she could give the wholeworld for one little loving minute in her sister's arms. 

"Fouchette!"

At least one dilemma relieved her from another; so she flew to answerJean's call, like the well-trained servant she was fast becoming. 

"That's right, Fouchette. I'm glad to find you more attentive to ourguests than I am. But I've been so confoundedly upset--andeverlastingly happy. We shall want another plate. Yes, my father willhonor us. I say, Fouchette, what a night! What a night!"

"I am so glad, Monsieur Jean! I am so glad!"

He considered her an instant and then hustled her into the kitchen andshut the door. "Let us consult a moment, my petite ménagère, " were hislast words to be overheard. In the kitchen he took her hands in his. 

"Look here, Fouchette! I owe my happiness to you. Everything, mindyou, --everything!"

"But have I not been happy, too?"

"There! For what you have done for me I could not repay you in alifetime, little one. "

"Then don't try, Monsieur Jean, " she retorted, as if annoyed. 

"And I'm going to ask you to increase the obligation. It is that youwill continue to preserve the character you have assumed, --just forthis occasion, you know. It will save me from----"

"Ah, çà! It is not much, Monsieur Jean, " she interrupted, with aseraphic smile. "To be your servant, monsieur, is---- I mean, to doanything to please you is happiness. "

"You are good, Fouchette, --so good! And when I think that I have noway to repay you----"

"Have I laid claim to reward?" she interposed, suddenly withdrawingher hands. "Have I asked for anything?"

"No, no! that is the worst of it!"

"Only your friendship, --your--your esteem, monsieur, --it is enough. Yet now that your affairs are all right and that you are happy, wemust--must part, --it will be necessary, --and--and----" There was apleading note in her low voice. 

"Well?"

"You have been a brother, --a sort of a brother and protector to me, anyhow, you know, and it would wrong--nobody----"

The blood had slowly mounted to her neck as she spoke and the lipsquivered a little as she offered them. 

It was the last, and when he was gone she felt that it wouldstrengthen her and enable her to bear up under the burden she had laidupon herself. She went about the additional preparations for thedinner mechanically. 

There was not a happier quartette in all Paris on this eventfulevening than that which sat around the little table in Jean Marot'shumble appartement in ancient Rue St. Jacques. 

And poor little Mlle. Fouchette!

The very sharpness of the contrast made her patient, resoluteabnegation more beautiful, her sacrifice more complete, her poignantsuffering more divine. Unconsciously she rose towards the elevatedplane of the Christ. She wore the crown of thorns in her heart; on herface shone the superhuman smile of sainthood. 

If in his present sudden and overwhelming happiness Jean forgot Mlle. Fouchette except when she was actually before him he must be forgiven. But neither his father nor Henri Lerouge was so blind, though thelatter evidently saw Mlle. Fouchette from a totally different point ofview. 

The gracious manner and encouraging smile of Mlle. Remy happilydiverted Fouchette from the consideration of her critics. Every kindword and every smile went home to Mlle. Fouchette. And for the momentshe gave way to the pleasure they created, as a stray kitten leans upagainst a warm brick. Sometimes it seemed as if she must break downand throw herself upon the breast of this lovely girl and claim hernatural right to be kept there, forever next to her heart!

At these moments she had recourse to her kitchen, where she had timeto recover her equilibrium. But Fouchette was a more than ordinarilyself-possessed young woman. She had been educated in a severe school, though one in which the emotions were permitted free range. It waslove now which required the curb. 

She served the dinner mechanically, but she served it well. Amid thewit and badinage she preserved the shelter of her humble station. 

Yet she knew that she was the frequent subject of their conversation. She saw that she was being covertly scrutinized by Lerouge. And, whatwas harder to bear, the elder Marot showed his sympathy bygood-natured comments on her appearance and service. The cry of"Fouchette!" recalling her to all this from her refuge in the kitcheninvariably sent a tremor through her slender frame. 

"Henri said you were so practical!" laughingly remarked Mlle. Andrée. 

"And am I not?" asked Jean, looking around the room. 

"Not a bit! There is nothing practical here, --no, --and your Fouchetteis the most impossible of all. "

"Ah, Jean!" broke in Henri, "this Fouchette, --come now, tell us abouther. "

"With proper reservations, " said M. Marot, seriously. 

"No; everything!" cried Andrée. 

She could see that it teased him, and persisted. "Anybody would knowthat she is not a common servant. Look at her hands!"

"I've seen your Fouchette somewhere under different circumstances, "muttered Lerouge, "but I can't just place her. "

"Well, " said Jean, after a moment's reflection, "she is an uncommonservant. "

He began to see that some frankness was the quickest way out of anunpleasant subject. "The fact is, as she has already told my father, Fouchette is an artist's model and lives next door to me. She takescare of my rooms for a consideration. But all the money in the worldwould not repay what I owe her, --quite all of my present happiness!Let me add, my dear mademoiselle, that the less attention you showher, the less you seem to notice her, the better she will like it. "

"How interesting!" cried Andrée; "and how unsatisfactory!"

"Very, " said her brother, with a meaning smile. 

"Some day, mademoiselle, I will tell you, --not now. I beg you toexcuse me just now. "

"Certainly, monsieur; but, pardon me, she must be ill, --and her faceis heavenly!"

"Is it?" asked Jean. "I had not noticed. Perhaps because one heavenlyface is all I can see at the same time. "

"Ah, monsieur!"

She tried to hide her confusion in a sip of champagne. 

M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon thewall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and moreleisurely examination. 

Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andrée's, --does any one knowhow these things come about?--and the girl's cheeks grew more rosythan usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes werelowered and she gently removed her hand from the table. 

"Here is the true model for an artist, " said he. 

"But I never sat, " she declared. 

"Oh, don't be too sure. "

"Never; wouldn't I remember it?"

"Perhaps not. One doesn't always remember everything. "

She blushed through her smile. She had unconsciously yielded her handagain. 

They talked airy nothings that conceal the thoughts. Then, in a fewminutes, she discovered that his hand again covered hers and wasinnocently caressing it. She drew it away in alarm. 

"Do not take it away! Are we not cousins, mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes; funny, isn't it? Long-lost cousins!" She laughed merrily. 

"And now that we are found----"

"It seems to me as if I had known you a long time, " shecontinued, --"for years and years! Or, perhaps it isbecause--because----"

"Come! let me show you something, " he interrupted, still retaining thehand, "some poor sketches of mine. "

He led her to the portfolio-stand in the corner and seated himself ather feet. 

The elder connoisseurs, meanwhile, had taken the sketch in which theywere interested from its place on the wall to the better light at thetable. 

"'La Petite Chatte. '"

"An expressive title, truly. "

"Why, its Mademoiselle Fouchette!" exclaimed M. Marot, holding thepicture off at arm's length. 

"It is, indeed! And the real Fouchette as I last beheld her at thenotorious Café Barrate. It's the 'Savatière'! That solves a mystery. "

Lerouge thereupon took M. Marot by the arm, replaced the picture onthe wall, and led the old gentleman to the corner farthest from thatoccupied by the younger couple, and there the two conversed over theircigars in a low tone for a long time. 

In that time they had mutually disposed of the other couple, --HenriLerouge, as brother and legal custodian of Mlle. Andrée Remy; M. Marot, as father of Jean Marot. They had not only agreed that thesetwo should marry, but had arranged as to the amount of the "dot" ofthe girl and the settlement upon the young man. Mlle. Andrée had twohundred and fifty thousand francs in her own right, but the chiefconsideration in the case was, to M. Marot, the fact that she was thedaughter of the beautiful woman whom he had once loved. For thisconsideration he agreed to double the amount of her dot and give hisson a junior partnership in the silk manufactory at Lyons. 

This arrangement had no relation whatever to the sentiment existingbetween the young couple. It would have been concluded, just the same, if they had not loved. 

In French matrimonial matters love is a mere detail. The parents, orthose who stand in the place of parents, are the absolute masters, andtherefore the high contracting powers. Sons as well as daughters aresubject to this will until after marriage. It is a custom strong asstatute law. If inclination coincide with parental desire, well andgood; if not, a social system which rears young orphan girls to feedthe insatiate lust of Paris winks at the secret lover and themistress. 

With the reasonable certainty of the approval of both father andbrother and with a heart surcharged with love for the sweet girl whomhe felt was not indifferent to him, Jean had reason to feel happy andconfident. As they bent over the pictures they formed a charmingpicture themselves. 

"Really, monsieur!"

Mlle. Remy saw herself reproduced with such faithfulness that shestarted. 

"Well?"

Jean looked up in her face with all his passion concentrated in hiseyes. 

She was bending over the head of a young girl with a profusion of fairhair down upon her shoulders, and she forgot. Another showed the sameface in a pen-and-ink profile, with the same glorious hair. 

"They are amateurish----"

"Au contraire, " she interrupted, "they are quite--but Henri did nottell me, monsieur, that you were an artist. "

"And he was right, cousin. "

She had turned her face away from the light, so he could not see herblushes. For these pictures told a story of love more vividly and moreeloquently than words. She was trying to piece out that which remaineduntold. 

"The pictures are well done, Cousin Jean, --and your model----"

"Fouchette. "

"Oh, yes; I see now! She is a model, truly!"

Mlle. Remy seemed to derive a good deal of satisfaction from thisconclusion. 

 [Illustration: IT WAS A CRITICAL MOMENT]

"But, " she added, quickly, "do you think she looks so much like me?"

"A mere suggestion, " he said. 

"It is curious, --very curious, mon--Cousin Jean; but do you know----"

Their heads were very close together. Unconsciously their lips met. 

Mlle. Fouchette had been engaged in the work of washing dishes. It wasan excuse to kill time and something to occupy her attention. As shecarefully arranged everything in its place she realized that it wasfor the last occasion. She knew her work was done. So she madeeverything particularly bright and clean. The dessert dishes andglasses were still on the table, and she had stepped out cautiouslyand timidly to fetch them. It was a critical moment. 

With the noiseless tread of a scared animal she turned back again intothe kitchen, and, closing the door softly, leaned against it withghostly face. She quickly stuffed the corner of her apron into hermouth to keep back the scream of agony that involuntarily rose to herlips. Her thin hands were tightly clinched and her body half drawninto a knot. 

"Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

Even the Saviour stumbled and fell beneath the heavy cross He hadassumed to insure the happiness of others. 

And Mlle. Fouchette was only a poor little, weak, nervous, ignorantwoman, groping blindly along the same rugged route of her Calvary. 

Unconsciously the same despairing cry had broken from her lips. 

"Fouchette!"

It was Jean's voice. 

Half fainting, half terror-stricken at her unfortunate position, shedrew a needle from the bosom of her dress and thrust it into herthigh--twice. 

"Fouchette!"

"Yes, monsieur!"

"That poor girl is certainly ill, Je--Cousin Jean, " said Mlle. Remy, sympathetically. 

"Nonsense!" he lightly replied. 

He wished to spare the unhappy Fouchette this attention. "She hasworked too hard. Drop it till to-morrow, little one, " he said, gently. "You must let things alone for to-night. "

"Indeed, it is nothing, monsieur. I must clear away these dessertdishes----"

"Have a glass of wine, " insisted Andrée, putting her armaffectionately about the slender waist and pouring out a glass ofchampagne. 

Lerouge regarded them with a frown of disapproval. Turning to M. Marot, he said, --

"You were congratulating France just now upon a new ministry, monsieur. At least the new ministry ought to give us a new set ofspies. Don't you think----"

But the wine-glass broke the last sentence, as it fell to the floorwith a crash. 

Only the protecting arm of Mlle. Remy sustained the drooping figurefor a moment, then Jean and his affianced bride bore it gently to themodel's home. 

CHAPTER XXII

"C'est fini!"

The girl raised herself wearily from her knees by the side of her bed, where she had fallen when she had bravely gotten rid of Jean andAndrée. 

"C'est fini!"

She repeated the words as she looked around the room, the poor, cheaplittle chamber where she had been so happy. Just so has many abereaved returned from the freshly made grave of some beloved to seethe terrible emptiness of life in every corner of the silent home. 

Mlle. Fouchette had grievously overrated her capacity to bear--tosuffer. Instead of lightening the load she had assumed, the discoveryof her sister in the beloved had doubled it. 

She had schooled herself to believe that to be near the object of herlove would be enough. She had thought that all else, being impossible, might be subordinated to the great pleasure of presence. That to servehim daily, to share after a fashion his smiles and sorrows, to be athis elbow with her sympathy and counsel, would be her happiness, --allthat she could ask for in this world. It would be almost as good asmarriage, n'est-ce pas?

Fouchette was in error. Not wholly as to the last assumption; it was afalse theory, marriage or no marriage. Countless thousands of betterand more intellectual people have in other ways found, are finding, will continue to find, it to be so. 

Mlle. Fouchette's tactical training in the great normal school oflife had not embraced Love. Therefore no line of retreat had beenconsidered. She was not only defeated, she was overwhelmed. 

All of her theories had vanished in a breath. 

Instead of finding happiness in the happiness of those whom she loved, it was torture, --the thumbscrew and the rack. It was terrible!

How could she have imagined that she might live contentedly under thisday after day?

The malice of Lerouge had been but the knock-out blow. It seemed toher now that his part was not half so cruel as that one kiss, --thekiss of Andrée's, that had stolen hers, Fouchette's, from his warmlips!

Yes, it was finished. 

There was nothing to live for now. Her sun had set. The light had goneout, leaving her alone, friendless, without a future. 

The fact that she had herself willed it, brought it about, and thatshe earnestly desired their happiness, made her despair none the lessdark and profound. 

She felt that she must get away, --must escape in some way from theconsequences of her own folly. 

She precipitated herself down the narrow stairs at the risk of herneck and darted down the Rue St. Jacques half crazed with grief. Shehad made no change in her attire, had not even paused to restrain theblonde hair that fell over her face. 

Rue St. Jacques is in high feather at this hour in the evening. It isthe hour of the jolly roysterer, male and female. Students, soldiers, bohemians, and bums jostle each other on the corners, while the damede trottoir stealthily lurks in the shadows with one eye out forpossible victims and the other for the agents de police. The cafés andwine-shops are aglare and the terrasse chairs are crowded to theirfullest of the day. 

The spectacle, therefore, of a pretty bonne racing along the middle ofthe street very naturally attracted considerable attention. 

This attention became excitement when another woman, who seemed tospring from the same source, broke away in hot pursuit of the servant. 

Nothing so generously appealed to the sensitiveness of Rue St. Jacquesas a case of jealousy, and women-baiting was a favorite amusement ofthe quarter. 

There was now a universal howl of delight and approbation. When thepursuing woman tripped and fell into the gutter the crowd greeted theunfortunate with a shower of unprintable pleasantries. 

"Ma foi! but she is outclassed!"

"Oh, she's only stopped to rest. "

"Too much absinthe!"

"The cow can never catch the calf!"

"The fat salope! To think she could have any show in a race or in lovewith the pretty bonne!"

"Yes; but where's the man?"

"Dame! It is one-eyed Mad!"

"Let her alone, --she's drunk!"

The fallen woman had laboriously regained her feet and turned atorrent of vulgar maledictions upon the jeering crowd. 

Then, having regained her equilibrium, she staggered forward inrenewed pursuit. The broad-bladed, double-edged knife of the Parisassassin gleamed in her right hand. 

"Bah! she will never catch her, " said a man whose attention had beencalled to this. 

"Let them fight it out, " assented his companion. 

"Hold! She is down again. "

Madeleine had reached the Rue Soufflot, and, in turning the cornersharply, had fallen against the irregular curb. 

The stragglers from the wine-shops hooted. The drunken women fairlyscreamed with delight. It was so amusing. 

But Madeleine did not get up this time. 

This was more amusing still; for the crowd, now considerably augmentedby the refuse from the neighboring tenements, launched all sorts ofhumorous suggestions at the prostrate figure, laughing uproariously atindividual wit. 

A few ran to where the dark figure lay, and a merry ruffian playfullykicked the prostrate woman. 

Still the woman stirred not. 

The ruffian who had just administered the kick slipped and fell uponher, whereat the crowd fairly split with laughter. It was so droll!

But the man did not join in this, for he saw that he had slipped in athin red stream that flowed sluggishly towards the gutter, and thathis hands were covered with warm blood. 

"Pardieu! she's dead, " he whispered. 

And they gently turned her over, and found that it was so. 

Madeleine had fallen upon her arm, and the terrible knife was yetembedded in her heart. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, unconscious of this pursuit and its fatal consequences, Mlle. Fouchette had swiftly passed from the narrow Rue St. Jacquesinto Rue Soufflot, and was flying across the broad Place du Panthéon. Blind to the glare of the wine-shops, deaf to the gay chanson of agroup of students and grisettes swinging by from the Café du HenriMurger, --indeed, dead to all the world, --the grief-stricken girl stillran at the top of her speed--towards----

The river?

Her poor little overtaxed brain was in a whirl. She had no definiteidea of anything beyond getting away. As a patient domestic beast ofburden suddenly resumes his savage state and rushes blindly, pell-mell, he knows not where, so Mlle. Fouchette now plunged into theoblivion of the night. 

Unconsciously, too, she had taken the road to the river, --the broadand well-travelled route of the Parisian unfortunate. 

Ah! the river!

For the first time it occurred to her now, --how many unbearable griefsthe river had swallowed up. 

There were so many things worse than death. One of these was to liveas Madeleine had lived. Never that! Never! Not now, --once, perhaps;but not now. Oh, no; not now!

The river seemed to beckon to her, --to call upon her, reproachfully, to come back to it, --to open its slimy arms and invite her to thepalpitating bosom that had soothed the sorrows of so many thousands ofthe children of civilization. 

And Fouchette was the offspring of the river. Why had she beenspared, then? Had it proved worth while?

She recalled every incident of that eventful period. She rememberedthe precise spot where she had been pulled out that gray morning, years before. 

This idea had flitted through her mind, at first vaguely, then, stillunsought, began to assume definite shape. 

Eh, bien, --soit! From the river to the river!

Mlle. Fouchette, as we have seen, had all the spontaneity of her race, accentuated by a life of caprice and reckless abandon. To conceive wasto execute. Consequences were an after-consideration, if at all worthyof such a thing as consideration. 

She stopped. But this hesitation was not in the execution of hersuddenly formed purpose. It was necessary to recover breath, and todecide whether to go by the way of the Rue Clovis, or to turn down bythe steep of Rue de la Mont Ste. Geneviève to the Boulevard St. Germain. 

It was but for a few panting moments. 

The clock of the ancient campanile of the Lycée Henri IV. Struck thehour of eleven. The hoarse, low, booming sound went sullenly rumblingand roaring up and down the stone-ribbed plaza of the Panthéon, androlled and reverberated from the great dome that sheltered theillustrious dead of France. 

The curious old church of St. Étienne du Mont rose immediately infront of the girl, and the sound of the bells startled her, --shook herideas together, --and, with the sight of the church, restored, in ameasure, her presence of mind. 

Her thoughts flew instantly back to the happy scene she had recentlyleft behind. The bells of the old tower, --ah! how often she and Jeanhad regulated their ménage by their music!

And she looked up at the grimly mixed pile of four centuries, with itsabsurd little round tower, its grotesque gargouilles, and grass-grownwalls, --St. Étienne du Mont. 

Doubtless they would be married here. 

To be married where reposed the blessed bones of Ste. Geneviève, or atSt. Denis amid the relics of royalty, was the dream of every youthfulParisienne. And Ste. Geneviève was the patronne of the virgins as wellas of the city of Paris. 

Mlle. Fouchette had witnessed a wedding at good old St. Étienne duMont, --indeed, any one might see a wedding here upon any day of theweek, and at almost any hour of the day, in season, --and she nowrecalled the pretty scene. Yes, of course Jean and Andrée would bemarried here. 

Obeying a curious impulse, the girl, still breathing heavily, ascendedthe broad stone steps and peeped into the little vestibule. The darkbaize door within stood ajar, and she could see the faint twinkle ofdistant lights and smell the escaping odors from the last mass. 

She would go in--just for a moment--to see again where they wouldstand before the altar. It would do no harm. Her last thoughts shouldbe of those she loved, --loved dearer--yes, a great deal more dearlythan life. 

Entering, she mechanically followed her training at Le Bon Pasteur, and, bending a knee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the font andcrossed her heaving breast. 

The great wax tapers were still burning about the ancient altar, andhere and there pairs and bunches of expiatory candles flickered in thelittle chapels. 

As no other light relieved the sombre blackness of the vaultededifice, an indefinite ghostliness prevailed, from out of which thenumerous gilded forms of the Virgin and the saints appeared halfintangible, as if hovering about with no fixed support or substance. 

The church might have been deserted, so far as any living indicationswere visible, though two or three darker splotches on the darknesscould have been taken for as many penitents seeking the peace whichpasseth understanding. 

Gliding softly down the right, outside of the pews and row of statelycolumns, Mlle. Fouchette stopped only at the last pillar, from whichshe had a near view of the pretty white altar. She remained there, leaning against the pillar, her eyes bent upon the altar, motionless, for a long time. 

During that period she had pictured just how the young couple wouldlook, --how beautiful the bride would appear, --how noble and handsomeJean Marot would shine at her side. 

She supplied all of the details as she had seen them once before, correcting and rearranging them in her mind with scrupulous care. 

All of this dreamily and without emotion, as one lies in the summershade idly tracing the fleeting clouds across a summer's sky. 

She had grown wonderfully calm, and when she turned away she gentlyput the picture behind her as an accomplished material thing. 

On her way she paused before the little chapel of Ste. Geneviève. There were candles burning before the altar, and a delicious, holyincense filled the air. 

Mlle. Fouchette recalled the stories of the intercession of Ste. Geneviève in behalf of virgin suppliants, and impetuously fell uponher knees outside the railing and bowed her face in her hands. 

She knew absolutely nothing of theological truth and error; religionwas to her only a vague scheme devised for other people--not for her. She had never in all her life uttered a prayer save on compulsion. Now, impulsively and without forethought, she was kneeling before thealtar and acknowledging God and the intercession of the Christ. 

It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity--the weakest andthe strongest, the worst and the best--to seek in the hour ofsuffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden theload of life. 

To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did notknow how, --and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteurseemed the mere empty rattle of beads. 

She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything byhalves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, passionately, and with the hottears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word. 

It would have been, from her point of view, quite impertinent for herto thrust her little affairs directly before the Throne. She was tootimid even to appeal to the Holy Virgin, as she had often heard othersdo, with the familiarity of personal acquaintance; but she felt thatshe might approach Ste. Geneviève, patronne des vierges, with someconfidence, if not a sense of right. 

She silently and tearfully laid her heart bare to Ste. Geneviève, andwith her whole passionate soul called upon her for support andassistance. If ever a young virgin needed help it was she, Fouchette, and if Ste. Geneviève had any influence at the higher court, now wasthe time to use it. First it was that Jean and Andrée might be happyand think of her kindly now and then; next, that she might be forgivenfor everything up to date and be permitted to be good, --that some waymight be opened to her, and that she might be kept in that way. 

Otherwise she must surely die. 

If Sister Agnes might only be restored to her, it would be enough. Itwas all she would ask, --the rest would follow. She must have SisterAgnes, --good Sister Agnes, who loved her and would protect her andlead her safely to the better life. Oh! only send her Sister Agnes----

"My child, you are in trouble?"

That gentle voice! The soft, caressing touch!

Ah! le bon Dieu!

It was Sister Agnes, truly!

The religieuse, ever struggling against the desires of the flesh, hadunconsciously kneeled side by side with the youthful suppliant. Disturbed by the sobs of the latter, she had addressed hersympathetically. 

To poor little ignorant and believing Fouchette it was as if one ofthe beautiful painted angels had suddenly assumed life and, leavingthe vaulted ceiling, had come floating down to softly brush her withher protecting wings. Awe-stricken at what seemed a directmanifestation of God, she found no words to express either surprise orjoy. She simply toppled over into the arms of the astonishedreligieuse and lost consciousness. The reaction was too great. 

Sister Agnes, who had not recognized in the girl dressed as abonne-à-toute-faire her protégée of Le Bon Pasteur, was naturallysomewhat startled at this unexpected demonstration, and called aloudfor the sacristan. 

"Blessed be God!" she exclaimed, when they had carried the girl intothe light of the vestry, --"it is Mademoiselle Fouchette!"

"What's she doing here?" demanded the man, with a mixture of suspicionand indignation. 

"Certainly nothing bad, monsieur. No, it can be nothing bad whichleads a young girl to prostrate herself at this hour before the altarof the blessed Ste. Geneviève!"

"Ste. Geneviève! That girl? That---- Mère de Dieu! what next?"

"Chut!"

"But it's a sacrilege, my sister. It's a profanation of God's holytemple!"

"S-sh! monsieur----"

"It's a wonder she was not stricken dead! Before Ste. Geneviève!"

"S-sh! monsieur, " protested the religieuse, gently, "ne jugez pas!"

"But----"

"Ne jugez pas!"

They had, in the mean time, applied simple restoratives with sucheffect that Mlle. Fouchette soon began to exhibit signs ofreanimation. 

"Will you kindly leave me alone with her here for a few minutes?"whispered Sister Agnes. 

"Willingly, " replied the ruffled attendant. "And mighty glad to----"

"S-sh!"

When Mlle. Fouchette's eyes were finally opened they first fell uponthe motherly face of Sister Agnes, then wandered rapidly about theroom, as if to fix her situation definitely, to again rest upon thereligieuse. And this look was one of inexpressible content, --ofboundless love and confidence. 

Sister Agnes, who was seated on the edge of the sofa on which the girllay extended, leaned over and affectionately kissed her lips. 

"You are much better now, my child?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! I was afraid it might be only--only a dream, --onedreams such things, n'est-ce pas? But it is true! There is really aGod, and prayers are answered--when one believes, --yes; when onebelieves very hard! Even the prayers of a poor little, miserable, wicked, motherless girl like me. Ah!----"

"Cer--certainly, chérie; but don't try to talk just yet. Wait a bit. You will feel stronger. "

The religieuse thought the girl's mind was wandering. 

"And good Ste. Geneviève heard me and had you sent to me. It was all Iasked. For I knew that if I only had you, I could be good, and I wouldknow what to do. It was all I asked--for myself. And you were sent atonce. Dear, good, sweet Sister Agnes!--the only one who ever lovedme!--except Tartar, --and love is necessary, n'est-ce pas?"

"You asked for me?"

Sister Agnes listened now with intense interest. Mlle. Fouchette was arevelation. 

"Oh! yes, --and they sent you--almost at once! Blessed Ste. Geneviève!"

"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wipingher eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. Shetried to speak cheerily. 

"Take me as you did when I first saw you, --when I was in thecell, "--and the voice now was that of a pleading child, --"that way;yes, --kiss me once more. "

On the matronly bosom of Sister Agnes the girl told her story, --thestory of her love, of her suffering, of her hopes, of her finalfailure, of her despair. 

"You see, my more than mother, it was too much----"

"Too much! I should think so!" interrupted the good sister, brusquely, to prevent a total breakdown. "Sainte Mère de Dieu! such is for theangels in heaven, mon enfant, --for mortals, never!"

"When I found she was my sister, --that her brother was mybrother, --and that even Jean Marot--I could not be one to spoil thishappiness by making myself known. No, I would rather die. I shouldhate myself even if they did not hate me. No, no, no! I could never dothat!"

"Fouchette, you are an angel!"

The religieuse slipped to the floor at the girl's side, and coveredthe small hands with kisses. She felt the insignificance of her ownworldly trials. 

"I am not worthy to sit in your presence, Fouchette, " she faltered. 

 * * * * *

As they slowly passed out of the church the younger seemed to supportthe elder woman. Both bowed for a few moments in silence before thealtar of Ste. Geneviève. 

And when they arose, Mlle. Fouchette took from the bosom of her dressa bit of folded paper and put it in the box of offerings inside therail. 

It was the bank-note for five hundred francs. 

At the door the grim sacristan, long impatient for this departure, growled his final disapproval of Mlle. Fouchette. 

"She's a terror, " he said. 

"She's a saint, monsieur, " was the quiet reply of Sister Agnes. 

A few minutes later the great door of the Dames de St. Michel closedupon the two women. Mlle. Fouchette had ceased to exist, and Mlle. Louise Remy had entered upon the coveted life of peace and love. 

THE END

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