The autographic fan mania had left its mark over the divan in the shape of a gigantic fan constructed of little fans and opening out towards the ceiling. A few pen-and-ink and pencil sketches and studies, apparently the cast-off of many studios, were tacked up here and there. The high mantel bore an accumulation of odds and ends peculiar to young women of low means and cheap friendships. That was all. But a French girl can get the best results from a room, as she can from a hat, with the least money.

Mlle. Fouchette had reached all of this private magnificence through a singular concatenation of circumstances.

First, Inspector Loup.

That distinguished penologist had laid his hands upon Mlle. Fouchette in no uncertain way.

An order of arrest was at this very moment lying in a certain pigeon-hole at the Prefecture. She had seen it. The name of "Mlle. Fouchette" appeared in the body thereof in big, fat, round letters, and a complete description, age, height, color of hair and eyes, and other particulars appeared across the back of this terrible paper, which was duly signed and ready for service.

A tap of the bell,—a push of an electric button,—and Mlle. Fouchette would be in prison.

There were five distinct counts against her, set forth in ponderous and damning legal phraseology and briefed alphabetically with a precision that carried conviction:

"A.—Vagrant—no home—supposed to have come from Nantes.

"B.—Consort of thieves—confession of life convict called 'le Cochon,' drawer 379, R.M.L. 29.

"C.—Go-between of robbers of the wood of Vincennes and receivers of stolen goods. Confession of M. Podvin, wine merchant, now serving term of twenty-one years for highway robbery, drawer 1210, R.M.L. 70.

"D.—Fugitive from State institution, where sent by lawful authority. See Le Bon Pasteur, Nancy. R.I. 2734.

"E.—Lost or destroyed public document addressed to the Prefecture and confided to her care under her false representation of being an authorized agent of that department of the government."

The service of this dreadful order of arrest, behind which crouched these crimes ready to rise and spring upon her, was suspended by Inspector Loup. For which tenderness and mercy Fouchette was merely to report to the Secret Service bureau in accordance with a preconcerted arrangement.

Second, Madeleine.

Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for his forbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Change towards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She was somewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was so limited that it was a sensation.

It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road to Charenton long, long ago!

Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under the lustrous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figure looked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through the scant bloomer bicycle suit.

The owner of this face and figure did not recognize in the other the petite chiffonniere de Charenton. That would have been too much to expect.

"Pardon! but, mademoiselle——"

Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless.

"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"

"Fouchette?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker of Charenton? But of course not,—it was long ago, and I have changed."

The other stared at her with her big black eyes.

"I was hungry,—you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind,—and I do not easily forget, mademoiselle,—though I'm only Fouchette,—no!"

"What! Fouchette—the—dame! it is impossible!"

"Still, it is true, mademoiselle," insisted Fouchette, laughing.

"Ah! I see—I know—why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'—oh! sacre bleu! To think——"

She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out at arm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet and back again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrily the while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous passers.

Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of the pretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toned down by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath.

"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, petite!" exclaimed the bicycliste.

"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital—only a few days——"

"Pauvrette! Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion," said the other, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "You shall tell me everything, dear."

"But, Mademoiselle—er——"

"Madeleine,—just Madeleine, Fouchette."

"Mademoiselle Madeleine——"

"I live over here,—au Quartier Latin. It is the only place—the place to see life. It is Paris! C'est la vie joyeuse!"

"Ah! then you no longer live at——"

"Let us begin here, Fouchette," interrupted Mlle. Madeleine, gravely, "and let us never talk about Charenton,—never! It cannot be a pleasant subject to you,—it is painful to me."

"Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle, I——"

"So it is understood, is it not?"

"With all my heart, mademoiselle!" said Fouchette, not sorry to conclude such a desirable bargain.

"Very good. We begin here——"

"Now."

"Yes, and as if we had never before seen or heard of each other."

"Exactly."

"Good! Now, what are you doing for a living, Fouchette?"

"Nothing."

"Good! So am I."

They laughed quite a great deal at this remarkable coincidence as they went along. And when Mlle. Fouchette protested that she must do something,—sewing, or something,—Mlle. Madeleine laughed yet more loudly, though Mlle. Fouchette saw nothing humorous in the situation.

"Nobody works in the Quartier Latin," said Madeleine. "C'est la vie joyeuse."

"But one must eat, mademoiselle——"

"Very sure! Yes, and drink; but——"

Mlle. Madeleine scrutinized her companion closely,—evidently Mlle. Fouchette was in earnest. Such naivete in a ragpicker was absurd, preposterous!

"Well, there are the studios," suggested Madeleine.

"The—the studios?"

"Yes,—the painters, you know; only models are a drug in the market here——"

"Models?"

"Yes; and, then, unless one has the figure——" she glanced at Fouchette doubtfully. "I'm getting too stout for anything but Roman mothers, Breton peasants, etc. You're too thin even for an angel or ballet dancer."

"I'm sure I'd rather be a danseuse than an angel," said Fouchette,—"that is, if I've got any choice in the matter."

"But one hasn't. You've got to pose in whatever character they want. Did you ever pose?"

"As a painter's model? Never."

Having ensconced themselves in a popular cafe restaurant on Boulevard St. Michel, the pair ordered an appetizing dejeuner, and Madeleine proceeded to enlighten Fouchette on the subject of the profession,—the character and peculiarities of various artists, their exactions of models, the recompense for holding a certain pose for a given time, the difficulty and art of resuming exactly the same pose, the studios for classes in the nude, the students generally and their pranks and games,—especially upon this latter branch of the business.

Mlle. Fouchette listened to all this with breathless interest, as may be imagined. For it was the opening up of a new world to her. The vivid description of the dancing and fun at the Bal Bullier filled her with delight and enthusiasm. She mentally vowed Madeleine as charming and condescending as ever. The girl had volunteered, good-naturedly, to make the rounds of the studios with her and get her "on the list." When Madeleine offered to engineer Fouchette's debut at the Bullier the latter cheerfully paid for the repast the other had rather lavishly ordered.

The mere chance rencontre had changed Fouchette's entire plan of life. She had bravely started for the grand boulevards with the idea of securing employment among the myriad dressmaking establishments of that neighborhood, and thus putting to practical use her industrial knowledge gained at Le Bon Pasteur.

Fortunately for her, Monsieur Marot's generous liberality had placed her beyond immediate need. A matron had equipped her with a new though simple costume and had given her a sum of money as she left,—merely saying that she acted according to instructions; but Fouchette felt that it was from her prince.

It was on the advice of Madeleine that Fouchette had secured this place in the Rue St. Jacques.

"It will make you independent and respected," said the practical grisette. "You've got the money now; you won't have it after a while. Take my advice,—fix the place up,—gradually, don't you know? You'll soon make friends who will help you if you're smart; and one must have a place to receive friends, n'est-ce pas? And the hotels garnis rob one shamefully!"

And, while Mlle. Fouchette did not dream of the real significance of this advice, she took it. The details were hers. She knew the value of a sou about as well as any woman in Paris, and no instructions were required on the subject of expenditures. She collected, piece by piece, at bottom prices, those articles which had to be purchased; made, stitch by stitch, such as required the needle.

To Mlle. Fouchette the simple, cheaply furnished and somewhat tawdry little room in the Rue St. Jacques was luxury. She was proud of it. She was perfectly contented with it. It was home.

With the confidence of one who has seen the worst and for whom every change must be for the better, Fouchette had succeeded where others would have been discouraged. This confidence to others often seemed reckless indifference, and consequently carried a certain degree of conviction.

Among a certain class of wild young men and confirmed Bohemians Fouchette had quickly achieved a sort of vogue which attaches to an eccentric woman in Paris. She was eccentric in that she danced eccentric dances, was the most reckless in the sportive circle, the highest kicker at the Bullier, and, most of all, in that she had no lovers. Unlike the Mimi Pinsons of the Murger era of the quarter, Fouchette was the most notorious of grisettes without being a grisette. At the fete of the student painters at the Bullier she had been borne on a palanquin clad only in a garland of roses amid thousands of vociferous young people of both sexes. The same night she had kicked a young man's front teeth out for presuming on liberties other girls of her set would have considered trifling.

Fouchette at once became the reigning sensation of "la vie joyeuse." Having had little or no pleasure in the world up to her entree here, she had plunged into the gayety of the quarter with an abandon that within two short months had made the Bohemian tales of Henri Murger tame reading.

Her pedal dexterity in a quarrel had won for her the sobriquet of "La Savatiere."

The "savate" as practised by the French boxer is the art of using the feet the same as the hands, and it is a means of offence not to be despised. It is the feline art that utilizes all four limbs in combat. Fouchette acquired it in her infancy,—in the fun and frequent scrimmages of the quarter she found occasion to practise it. Mlle. Fouchette's temper was as eccentric as her dances.

On the wall of Mlle. Fouchette's room hung a rude crayon of that damsel by a prominent caricaturist. It was a front view of her face, in which the artist had maliciously accentuated, in a few bold strokes, the feline fulness of jaws, the half-contracted eyelids, the alert eyes, and general catlike expression,—to be seen only when Mlle. Fouchette was in anger. It was the subtle touch of the master, and was labelled "La Petite Chatte."

"Ah, ce!" she would say to curious visitors,—"it is not me; it is the mind of Leandre."

As Mlle. Fouchette stood tiptoeing before a little folding mirror on the high mantel, the reflection showed both front and sides of a face that betrayed none of these characteristics. In fact, the blonde hair, smoothed flat to the skull and draping low over the ears, after the fashion set by a popular actress of the day, gave her the demure look of a young woman who might shriek at the sight of a man in his shirt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge by appearances,—of a woman, especially. The slender figure showed that the physical indications in the delicately rounded arm, the taper fingers, and shapely feet were justified by the proportionate development of the rest of her anatomy. Nature had been gentle rather than generous. Mlle. Fouchette was in demand for angels and ballet dancers.

Her face, evidently, did not suit Mlle. Fouchette, since she was at this moment in the act of touching it up and making it over with colors from an enamelled box,—a trick of the Parisienne of every grade.

Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely put the finishing touches to her artistic job when her door vibrated under a vigorous blow.

She paused, hesitated, flushed with symptoms of a rising temper. One does not feel kindly towards persons hurling themselves thus against one's private door. But the noise continued, as if somebody beat the heavy planking with the fist, and Mlle. Fouchette threw the door open.

Mlle. Madeleine staggered into the room.

"How's this? melon!"

"Oh! so you're here,—you are not there!" gasped the intruder, falling into a seat and fixing her black eyes sullenly upon the other.

Mlle. Fouchette closed the door with a snap and confronted her visitor with a hardening face.

"I thought it was you, Fouchette!"

"Madeleine, you're drunk!"

"No, no, no, no! I have had such a—a—turn, deary,—pardon me! But she had the same figure,—the same hair,—mon Dieu!"

"Who?"

"Oh! I don't know, Fouchette,—the woman with him, you know,—with Henri, Fouchette!"

The speaker seemed overcome with mingled terror and anger. She stopped to collect her thoughts,—to get her breath.

"What a fool you are, Madeleine! I wouldn't go on that way for the best man living! No!"

And Fouchette thought of Jean Marot, and mentally included him.

"Oh! Fouchette, dear, you do not know! You cannot know! You never loved! You cannot love! You are calm and cold and indifferent,—it is your nature. Mine! I am consumed by fire,—it grips my very vitals! Ah! Fouchette!"

"Bah! Madeleine, it is absinthe," said Fouchette, only half pityingly.

"No, no, no, no!" moaned the other, covering her face with her hands.

"So this Lerouge has disappeared, eh? Well, then, let him go, fool! Are there not others?"

"Mon Dieu! Fouchette, how you talk!"

"Who is this lucky woman?"

"I do not know,—I do not know! Pardon me for thinking it, Fouchette, but I was half crazy,—I thought but just now that it was—was you!"

"Idiot!"

"Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves."

"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me, Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,—I never even saw him,—had disappeared——"

"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run away?"

"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do that, you silly goose!"

"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's Remy,—yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing like—oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm half crazy!"

"I believe you," said Fouchette.

"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me——"

Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped. Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden surprise was——

"Well, melon!" she snapped.

"I—why, I didn't know you——"

"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other.

"That her name was Remy."

"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.

"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy."

Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.

"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunken gossip!"

Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went down like a log.



CHAPTER VIII

Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.

They immediately embraced and wept together.

Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many endearments behind her.

Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.

What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.

Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.

Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost intangible,—like the millionaire employer to his humble workman, covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.

When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she would have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, by accident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first time he had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume to detain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her and talk to her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was getting along,—condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the moment in a former servant.

In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la vie joyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Petit Rouge." It attracted the attention of his associates.

"First Lerouge, now it's Jean," growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafing along the quais nights,—it's malaria."

"He's greatly changed," remarked another student.

"It's worry," said another.

"Probably debts," observed young Massard, thinking of his chief affliction.

"Bah! that kind of worry never pulls you down like this," retorted a companion.

"Now, don't get personal; but debts do worry a fellow,—debts and women."

"Put women first; debts follow as a necessary corollary."

"He ought to hunt up Lerouge. What the devil is in that Lerouge, anyhow?"

"More women," said Massard.

"And debts, eh?"

"Oh, well," continued Massard, "if she is a pretty woman——"

"She's more than pretty," cut in George Villeroy,—"she's a beauty!"

"Hear! hear! Tres bien!"

But the student turned to the "subject" on the "dressing-table," humming a gay chanson of Musset:

"'Nous allons chanter a la ronde, Si vous voulez. Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blonde Comme les bles!'"

"A man never should neglect his lectures for anything, and that's what both 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 be recalled 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 Savatiere? Nonsense!"

"Here's a lock of her hair in evidence," remarked Massard, going to a drawer and taking out a bit of paper. "It is as clear to my mind as it was to the police that Monsieur Marot had that girl, or some other like her, up here that night."

"Let me see that," said Villeroy.

"I found it on the floor the next day,—the inspector took away quite a bunch of it," continued the young man, as the other examined the lock.

"There are two women who have hair like that," said Villeroy,—"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, which is it?"

"Her name is Remy,—Mademoiselle Remy," observed Massard; "and, as George says, she's a beauty——"

"Which cannot be said of La Savatiere."

"No; and yet——"

"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Massard. "I never saw 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 a dozen times."

"Very likely," observed Villeroy.

* * * * *

It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumiere was en fete. The left 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 stood apart 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 years had connected the ancient Isle de la Cite with the mainland. A long line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen of every degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers, countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above these massive stone arches of three centuries.

Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he analyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that the little winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly so unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced to 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 the young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.

"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fete," said a rich contralto voice behind him.

He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face and 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 to dream of casting one's self into the Seine?"

Meanwhile, the object of this raillery was busily extracting bits of colored paper from his eyebrows and neck,—a wholly useless proceeding, for both girls immediately deluged him with a fresh avalanche.

Madeleine was in her costume a la bicyclette, her sailor hat tipped forward to such a degree that it was necessary for her to elevate her stout chin in order to see anything on a level. Mlle. Fouchette affected the clinging, fluffy style of costume best suited to her figure, while her rare blonde hair a la Merode was her distinguishing feature. She dominated the older and stouter girl as if the latter were an irresponsible junior.

Jean Marot knew very well the type of grisette indigenous to the Quartier Latin.

The day justified all sorts of familiarity, and his black velvet beret and flowing black scarf were an invitation to fraternity, good fellowship, and confidence.

Both young women were in high spirits and carried in bags of fancy netting with tricolor draw-strings their surplus stock of confetti, and an enormous quantity of the surplus stock of other manifestants in their hair and clothing. As fast as Jean picked out the confetti from his neck Mlle. Madeleine playfully squandered other handfuls on him, winding up by covering the young man with the entire contents of her bag 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. She had 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 Rue Dauphine and Rue de Monsieur le Prince for Boulevard St. Michel, the lively young women distributing confetti in liberal doses and taking similar punishment in utmost good humor, Jean not sorry for the time being at finding this temporary distraction. He had generously replenished the pretty bags from the first baraque, though they were quickly emptied again in the narrow Rue de Monsieur le Prince, where a hot engagement between students and "filles du quartier" was in progress.

Mlle. Madeleine was fairly choking with laughter. She had just caught a young man with his mouth open, by a trick of the elbow; and as he mutely sputtered confetti her petite blonde companion caught her long skirt aside and kicked his hat off. This "coup de pied" was administered with such marvellous grace and dexterity that even the victim joined in the roar of laughter that followed it. A thin smile spread over her pale face as Jean looked at her.

"La Savatiere,—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 getting known in the quarter."

"I don't wonder," said Jean, laughing.

They found seats beneath the awnings at the Taverne du Pantheon. The rain of confetti was getting to be a deluge. He asked them what they would have.

"Un ballon, garcon," said Mlle. Fouchette, promptly.

This designated a small glass of beer, served in a balloon-shaped glass like a large claret glass.

Madeleine also would take "un ballon," Jean contenting himself with the usual "bock,"—an ordinary glass of beer.

Each covered the beer with the little saucer, to protect it from the occasional gust of confetti that even found its way to the extreme rear of the half a hundred sidewalk sitters.

Mlle. Fouchette had been studying the young man from the corners of her eyes. She saw him greatly changed. His handsome face betrayed marks of worry or dissipation,—she decided on the latter. What could a young man in his enviable position have to worry about? Was it possible that——

"Monsieur," she began at once, with the air of an ingenue, "they say you strongly resemble one Lerouge,—that you are often taken one for the other. Is it so?"

He glanced at her inquiringly, while Madeleine patted the ground with her 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,—have you seen Lerouge lately?"

"No,—no," said he.

"From what I learn," remarked Mlle. Fouchette, with a precision and nonchalance that defied suspicion, "Monsieur Lerouge is probably off in some sweet solitude unknown to vulgar eye enjoying his honeymoon."

Madeleine shot one furious glance at the speaker; but not daring to trust her tongue, she suddenly excused herself and disappeared in the throng.

Jean saw that she had been cut to the quick, and her abrupt action served for the moment to dull the pain at his own heart. He concealed his resentment at this malicious—but, after all, this "child of the police" 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 with Lerouge."

"Ah, ca! When she flies into a rage at the mention of him and another woman? 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 own secret he was not averse to gaining any information this girl might possess.

"Perhaps," said she,—"for those who admire the robust style. But you should see the other; she's an angel!"

"Indeed?"

It was hard to put this in a tone of indifference, and he felt her eyes 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 visions as 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 had fascinated him,—who had robbed him of his rest,—who had without an effort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul,—it was incense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye,—a most excellent judgment. It extracted the sting——

"Yes," continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were so much glass, "a great artist said to me the other day——"

"Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty,—the 'sculptor's dream,' 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, garcon," repeated Mlle. Fouchette.

They looked at the crowd in silence for a while.

The scene was inspiriting. With the shades of evening the joyous struggle waxed more furious. The entire street was now taken up by the merrymakers, who made the air resound with their screams and shrieks of laughter. The confetti lay three or four inches deep on the walks, where street gamins slyly scraped it into private receptacles for second use. The haze of dust hung over the broad Boulevard St. Michel like a morning fog over a swamp. Mlle. Fouchette watched the scene for a 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,—who loves another."

"'Loves another,'" he repeated, absently.

"But if Madeleine meets them just now,—oh! look out, monsieur! She's a tiger!"

He shuddered. He was unable to stand this any longer; he rose absent-mindedly and, with scant courtesy to the gossipper, incontinently fled.

"Ah! what a handsome fellow he is! Yet he is certainly a fool about women. A pig like Madeleine! But, then, all men are fools when it comes to a woman."

With this bit of philosophy Mlle. Fouchette buried her dainty nose in the last "ballon." She quenched a rising sigh by the operation. For some reason she was not quite happy. As she withdrew it her face suddenly 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 a young girl slowly forced a passage through the conflicting currents of boisterous people. The man was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, of supple figure, serious face, and sombre eyes that lighted up reluctantly at all of this frivolity. It was only when they were turned upon the sweet young face of the girl at his side that they took on a glow of inexpressible sweetness.

"Truly!" said Mlle. Fouchette to herself, "but she is something on my style."

Which is perhaps the highest compliment one woman can pay another. It meant that her "style" was quite satisfactory,—the right thing. Yet Mlle. Fouchette really needed some fifty pounds of additional flesh to get into the same class.

If the rippling laughter, the shining azure of her eyes, the ever-changing expression of her mobile mouth, and now and then the rapt look bestowed upon her companion were indications, she certainly was a happy young woman. Her right hand rested upon his arm, her left shielded her face from the too fierce onslaughts of confetti. Neither of them took an active part in the fun. That, however, did not deter the young men from complimenting her with a continuous shower of confetti. The girl laughingly shook it out of her beautiful blonde hair.

"Allons donc! She has my hair, too!" thought Mlle. Fouchette. It is impossible not to admire ourselves in others.

With the excitement of an unaccustomed pleasure mantling her neck and cheeks the girl was certainly a pretty picture. The plain and simple costume was of the cut of the provinces rather than that of Paris, but it set off the lithe and graceful figure that needed no artificiality of the dressmaker to enforce its petite perfection.

"That must be Lerouge," thought Mlle. Fouchette. "He does look something like—no; it is imagination. He is not nearly so handsome as Monsieur 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 met hers,—they sought the face of her companion, and returned and rested curiously upon Mlle. Fouchette. The glance of her escort followed in the same direction. And even after they had passed he half turned again and looked back at the girl sitting alone amid the crowd under the awning.

Jean Marot had plunged into the throng to try and shake off the unpleasant suggestions of Mlle. Fouchette. While he felt instinctively the feminine malice, it was none the less bitter to his taste. It was opening a wound afresh and salting it. He felt that the idea suggested by "La Savatiere" was intolerable,—impossible. He paced up and down alone in the Luxembourg gardens until retreat was sounded. Then he re-entered the boulevard by the Place de Medicis, dodged a bevy of singing grisettes in male attire, to suddenly find himself face to face with the object of his thoughts.

How beautiful, and sweet and pure and innocent she looked! The laughing eyes, the profusion of hair with its tint of gold, now sparkling with confetti, the two rows of pearls between their rich rims of red,—it surely was an angel from the skies and not a woman who stood before him! And his knees trembled with the desire to let him to the earth at her feet.

The young girl regarded him first in semi-recognition, then with blank astonishment,—as well she might. She shrank closer to her protector.

Henri Lerouge had at first looked at his former friend with a dark and scowling face; but Jean had seen only the girl, and therefore failed to note the expression of satisfaction that swiftly succeeded.

"Pardon! but, monsieur, even Mardi Gras does not excuse a boor." And Lerouge somewhat roughly elbowed him to one side.

The insult from Lerouge was nothing. Jean never thought of that. She had come, she had ignored him, she had gone,—the woman he loved!

He stood speechless for a moment, then staggered away, his self-love bleeding.

Unconsciously he had taken the direction they had gone, slowly groping his way rather than walking, next to the iron fence of the Luxembourg gardens, past the great School of Mines, along the Boulevard St. Michel towards the Observatory. Like a drunken man he stuck close to the walls, and thus crossed the obtuse angle into Rue Denfert-Rocherau. Hesitating at the tomb-like buildings that mark the entrance to the catacombs at the end of that street, he leaned against the great wrought-iron grille and tried to collect his thoughts.

He remembered now; this was where he had gone down one day to view the rows and stacks of boxes and vaults of mouldering bones. Yes, he even recalled the humorous idea of that day that there were more Parisians beneath the pavements of Paris than above them, and that they slept better o' nights.

The cold wind stirred the branches, and they grated against the fence with 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 some rez-de-chaussee aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges. Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered with confetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the day together.

Rue Halle,—he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it.

All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgar earth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly round the corner from the Avenue d'Orleans and came towards him. Her stout figure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down the street,—the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perched forward at an angle of forty-five degrees.

It was Mlle. Madeleine.

What could she be doing here at this hour,—she, who lived in Rue Monge?

Before he could answer this question she was almost upon him. But she was so absorbed in her own purposes that she saw him not, merely turning to the right up the Rue Halle with the quick and certain step of one who knows. Her black brows were set fiercely, and beneath them the big dark eyes glittered dangerously. Her full lips were tightly compressed; 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 own tempestuous soul. He had read therein his own mind distempered by love and doubt and torn by jealousy, disappointment, and despair.

He recalled the warning of Mlle. Fouchette, and he trembled for the woman he loved. Well he comprehended the French character where love and hatred are concerned.

At Rue Bezout the girl turned to the left, crossed over, and ran rather than walked towards Avenue Montsouris. Jean ran until he reached the corner, then cautiously peeped around it. Had he not done so he would have come upon her, for she had stopped within two metres and fumbled nervously with a package. He could hear her panting and murmuring in her deep voice. She tore the string from the package with her 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 he had seen the intended victim of this diabolical design approaching at that moment he felt that he would scarcely have the strength to cry out in warning, so overwhelmed was he with the horror of it.

What should he do? Would they come this way, or by Montsouris? He might fall upon her suddenly,—overpower her where she stood!

Jean softly peeped once more around the angle of the wall. She was trying to extract the cork from the bottle with a pair of tiny scissors, but, being half frantic with haste and passion, she had only broken 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 Halle. It was now or——

But a second glance over his shoulder showed that they had turned down the narrow Rue Dareau. Madeleine had made a mistake.

Almost at the same instant a piercing shriek of agony burst upon the night. The scream seemed to split his ears, so near was it, so deep the pain and terror of it.

And there lay the miserable woman writhing on the walk, tearing out great wisps of her dark hair in her intolerable suffering, and filling the air with heart-rending cries of distress.



CHAPTER IX

Jean Marot was not, as has been seen, an extraordinary type of his countrymen. Sensitive, sympathetic, impulsive, passionate, extreme in all things, he embodied in method and temperament the characteristics of his race.

His first impulse upon realizing what had befallen the misguided girl of Rue Monge was the impulse common to humanity. But as he flew to her succor he saw others running from various directions, attracted by her cries and moved by the same motive.

To be found there would not only be useless but dangerous,—for the girl as well as for himself. Therefore he discreetly took to his heels.

Flight at such a moment is confession of guilt. So it followed quite naturally that a comprehension of what had happened sent a considerable portion of the first-comers after the fleeing man.

"Assassin!"

"Vitrioleur!"

"Stop him!"

These are very inspiring cries with a clamorous French mob to howl them. To be caught under such circumstances is to run imminent risk of summary punishment. And the vitriol-thrower is not an uncommon feature of Parisian criminal life; there would be little hesitation where one is caught, as it were, red-handed.

Jean ran these possibilities through his mind as he dashed down a side street into the Avenue Montsouris. Fear did not exactly lend him wings, but it certainly did not retard his flight. And he had the additional advantage that he was not yelling at every jump and lost no time in false direction. He doubled by way of Rue Dareau, cut into Rue de la Tombe-Issoire over the net-work of railway tracks, and then dropped into a walk. But not so soon that he escaped the observation of a police agent standing in the shadow in the next narrow turning towards the railway station. The officer heard his panting breath long before Jean got near him, and rightly conjectured that the student was running away from something. To detain him for an explanation was an obvious duty.

"Well, now! Monsieur seems to be in a hurry," said he, as he suddenly stepped in front of the fugitive.

This official apparition would have startled even a man who was not in a 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, young man!"

The agent made a gesture to seize his suspect, but at that moment Jean saw two other agents in the distance walking rapidly to join their comrade. He upper-cut the man sharply, catching him squarely on the point of the chin and sending him to grass with a mangled and bleeding tongue.

There appeared to be no help for it, but the young man now had two fresh pursuers. At any rate, he was free. It would be to his shame, he thought, if he could not distance two men in heavy cowhide boots, encumbered with cloaks and sabres. So he started down the Rue de la Tombe-Issoire with a lead of some two hundred yards. He saw lights and a crowd and heard music in the Place St. Jacques, and knew that he was saved.

The Place St. Jacques was en fete. A band-stand occupied the spot long sacred to the guillotine, up to its last removal to La Roquette. The immediate neighborhood of Place St. Jacques would have preferred the guillotine and an occasional execution as a holiday enjoyment, but next to witnessing the sanguinary operation of the "national razor," a dance was the popular idea of amusement. And the Parisian populace must be amused. The government considers that a part of its duty, and encourages the "bal du carrefour" by the erection of stands and providing music at the general expense. It was the saturnine humor of Place St. Jacques to dance where men lost their heads. However, it would be difficult to find a street crossing in Paris big enough to dance in that had not been through the centuries soaked with human blood.

It was a little fresher in Place St. Jacques, that was all.

The band-stand being on the exact place marked in the stone pavement for the guillotine, it gave a sort of peculiar piquancy to the occasion. While the proprietors of the adjacent wine-shops and "zincs" grumbled at the new order of things, the young people were making the best of Mardi Gras in hilarious fashion.

Though Place St. Jacques presented a lively scene beneath its scattered lights, it was one common enough to Jean Marot, who now only saw in the romping crowd and spectators the means of shaking off his police pursuers. Among the hundred dancers he made his way to the most compact body of lookers-on, where the indications were that something unusually interesting was in progress. Here the blown condition of a student would not be noticed.

Yells of delight from those in his immediate vicinity awoke his curiosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of the figure this expression grew enthusiastic.

"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus.

"Tres bien! tres bien!"

"It is well done, that!"

"Yes,—it is the Savatiere!"

Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back to him 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 the pair were showing off the agile accomplishments of the semi-professionals of the Bullier and Moulin Rouge. These consisted of kicking off the nearest hats, doing the split, the guitar act, the pointed arch, and similar fantasies. Having forced his way in, Jean was instantly recognized by Mlle. Fouchette, who shook the confetti out of her blonde hair 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 Jean hat in hand and addressed him with courtly politeness.

Jean protested with equal politeness,—yet the offer served his turn admirably,—no! no!—and the mademoiselle, monsieur?

"Come, then!" cried that damsel, as the last figure began, and she seized 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 would be the admiration of the ballet-master. Frenchmen dance for the pure love of motion. They prefer an agile partner of the softer sex, but it is not essential,—they will dance with each other, or even alone, and on the pavements of Paris as well as on the waxed floor of a ball-room.

Jean Marot was, like many students of the Quartier Latin, not only a lover of Terpsichore, but proficient in the art of using his legs for something more agreeable than running. There were difficult steps and acrobatic feats introduced by Mlle. Fouchette which he could execute quite as easily and gracefully. And thus it happened that the young man who three minutes before had been fleeing the police was now swept away into the general frivolity of Place St. Jacques. In fact, he had already absolutely forgotten that he had come there a fugitive.

Mlle. Fouchette had just joyously challenged him to make the "arc aux pieds" with her,—which is to pose foot against foot in midair while the other dancers pass beneath,—when Jean noticed a keen-eyed police agent looking at him attentively.



"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently, and up went his foot against the neat little boot, and the other six passed merrily beneath.

When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whispered together earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibi stood.

Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as they walked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt at concealment.

"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking of Madeleine?"

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 can offer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-ce pas?"

"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle."

Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded to let them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired.

When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up the easy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on the bed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small round oil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at her inquiringly.

"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 single griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great complacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side.

"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was demanded 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 the cafes every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the studios, because of the models."

"Oh!"

"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And I 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," she continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"

She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a cupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboard was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being covered 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 little oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.

Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his mind from sinking into its recent despondency.

"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you are not going to try to cook on that thing!"

"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, cherie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"

Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and domestic friend,—the worst that could be said of which friend was that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,—but it did not interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette. She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish of 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 and wine would have——"

"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieur thinks 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 of wine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finally observing, with a smile,—

"It can't be Madeleine——"

"Oh! to the devil with——" but he checked himself by the sudden recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine.

Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of his confusion.

"Is it necessary, then," he asked, cynically, "that I should be in love with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceive her.

"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate—one."

"Both, perhaps," he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette and I 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 his private affairs with Mlle. Fouchette.

The girl was quick to see this and changed the conversation to politics. But Jean had no mind for this either. He began to grow impatient, when she opened a box on the mantel and showed him an assortment 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, indicating an 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. You got 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 affected satire.

"There,—tell me about the pipes."

"Oh, yes. Well, you know how men hate to part with old pipes? And they are, 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 showing more or less budding genius. He paused some time before the head of his 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, I should say that bit is worth, say, one hundred francs."

"Nonsense! The work of five minutes of—amusement; yes, making fun of me one day. Do you suppose he would give me one hundred francs?"

"The highest effects in art are often merest accident, or the result of 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 offers me 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 banque for fifty francs. "Voila! 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 as a—present——"

"No, no!"

"As a souvenir, monsieur."

"Nonsense! I will not do it," he declared. "Come, mademoiselle, you are trying to back out of your offer of a minute ago. Here! Is it mine or 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 as she carefully folded the bank-note and put it away with a sigh. It was a great deal of money for her, but still——

There was a great noise at the iron knocker below. This had been repeated for the third time.

"My friends below are growing impatient," he thought.

Jean had that inborn hatred of authority so common to many of his countrymen. It often begins in baiting the police, and sometimes ends in 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 will never 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 to her 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 one o'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 he had 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 was more excited. She whispered,—

"Monsieur Benoit, le concierge, he wants to see you,—he must let them in!"

"Well, let them in!" exclaimed the young man.

He had thought of Madeleine, chiefly, and the effect of his arrest upon her. A hearing must inevitably lead to her exposure, if not to his. But it was useless to endeavor to escape. He felt that he was trapped. 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 his flaring candle. The man cautiously closed the inner vestibule door.

"S-sh! It is a souriciere, monsieur, as I suspected when you came in with 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 should become a fugitive."

"As you please, monsieur," replied the concierge, with an expressive shrug. And the clack of his sabots was soon heard on the stone stair.

"Funny," said Jean, re-entering, "but he takes me for Lerouge. There is some sort of understanding between them. He would have aided me to escape."

"And why not have accepted, monsieur?" asked Mlle. Fouchette.

"I would rather be a prisoner as Jean Marot than escape as Henri Lerouge," replied the young man.

"Anyhow," muttered the girl, "perhaps the police have made the same mistake."

"I'm afraid not," said Jean.

Mlle. Fouchette regarded the young man admiringly from the corner of her eye. He was so calm and resolute. He had resumed the easy-chair and pipe.

Mlle. Fouchette was not able to veil her feelings under this cloak of indifference. Her highly nervous organization was sensibly disturbed. One might have easily presumed that she was in question instead of Jean Marot. She had hastily cleared the little table and replaced the lamp, 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 the body 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 few moments 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 undoubtedly genuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error in believing 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 entering the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A rear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people on the stairs.

The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal her visitor.

"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.

"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is not Monsieur Lerouge?"

"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"

"Jean Marot."

"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he glanced 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 not Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is all."

The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed with 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 man we took that night at Le Petit Rouge,—non!"

"Ah! la, la, la!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is Marot. 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 Cafe du Pantheon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so it is said."

"That is very true," muttered the concierge,—"and I have made the mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."

Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sous-brigadier that at once attracted that consequential man's attention.

"Then, mademoiselle," he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you can give us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"

"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau,—en quatrieme."

M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as much effect upon her as water might have on a duck's back.

Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street and number in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latter rose to take his departure,—

"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against Monsieur Lerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"

"It is very serious, monsieur," replied the man, respectful enough now; "a young woman has been blinded with vitriol."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I don't believe Lerouge could have 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 some explanation. 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 a sacred duty in the common schools of France. Revenge keeps the fires aglow under the boilers of French patriotism. Revenge is the first thought to follow on the heels of private insult or personal injury.

It had been that of the ignorant human animal called Madeleine. How the horrible design of Madeleine had chilled his blood! He was sorry for the unhappy girl with a natural sympathy; yet he would have torn her to pieces had she successfully carried her scheme of revenge into execution.

Jean took to haunting Montrouge day and night, invariably passing down Rue Dareau and contemplating No. 7, keeping his eye on the porte-cochere and the fourth floor, as if she might be passing in or out, or show herself at a lighted window. But he never saw her,—never saw Lerouge. He never seemed to expect to see them.

He had ceased to attend classes. What were books and classes to him now? 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 as promptly replied. He refused to go. An equally prompt response told him he had no home,—no father,—and that thenceforth he must shift for himself,—that he had received his last franc.

Ten days later he unexpectedly encountered Mlle. Fouchette on Boulevard St. Michel. It was Saturday evening, and all the student world was abroad. But perhaps of that world none was more miserable than Jean Marot.

"Ah! Then it is really you, monsieur?" There was a perceptible coldness in her greeting. However, his condition was apparent. The sharp blue eyes had taken his measure at a glance. She interrupted his polite reply.

"La! la! la! Then you are in trouble. You young men are always in trouble. When it isn't one thing it is another."

"It is both this time, I'm afraid," he said, smiling at the heavy philosophy from such a light source.

They crossed over and walked along the wall of the ancient College d'Harcourt, where there were fewer people. The dark circles under his handsome 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 the Luxembourg 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 distinguished an honor?"

"Dear me! monsieur, it was chiefly what you hadn't done; and then the circumstantial evidence, you must confess, was strong."

"I realized that, also that in France it is not easy to get out of prison, once in it, innocent or guilty."

"So you kept out. Very wisely, monsieur. But you know the papers next morning spoke of Madeleine's lover, and talked of the lost clue of the Place St. Jacques, where we met."

"It certainly would have been suspicious under some circumstances," he admitted. "Now, if I had been her lover, for instance——"

"There! I went to the hospital. And don't you know, she would not betray the man who did it, though she suffered horribly. She will lose one 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 Madeleine could 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 love goes badly, I suppose, eh?"

"Always."

"It is the same old thing. I wonder how it is to be loved thus. Very nice, 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 rather than to his wondering companion.

"Why, monsieur!——"

"But there are other things just now,—to-day," he said, abruptly changing the subject; "and the worst thing——"

"The worst thing is money," she interrupted. "I have had 'the worst thing.' It happens every now and then. You need not hesitate."

"Worse yet," he continued, smiling in spite of himself at her conclusion.

"I can tell it in advance. It is the old story. Your love is not reciprocated,—you neglect your classes,—you fail in the exams,—you take to absinthe. Ah, ca!"

"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 who knows all about it and was ready with her decision.

"Monsieur Marot,"—she paused a second,—"you think I'm a bad girl——"

"Oh, don't be too sure of that. I——"

"Ah, ca!" impatiently waving his politeness aside; "but I owe you much, 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 poor little woman, monsieur,—alone in the world. But I know this world,—I have 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 the most 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 almost pleading.

"Go home, Monsieur Jean! Leave all of this behind,—it is ruin!"

"Never! I cannot do that, mademoiselle. Besides, it is too late,—it is impossible! I have no home, now. Never!"

"There!"

Mlle. Fouchette rose abruptly, shrugging her narrow shoulders with the air of having done what she could and washing her hands of the consequences. Her smile of half pity, half contempt, for the weakness of a strong man clearly indicated that she had expected nothing and was not disappointed. As he still remained absorbed in his own miserable 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 are going to do. You probably have friends?"

"A few."

"Do not trust to friends, monsieur; it will spare you the humiliation of 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 you will come and dine with me and petite Poupon we can talk it all over at leisure, n'est-ce pas? I can make a bien joli pot-au-feu for a franc,—which means soup, meat, and vegetables; and I know a petite marchande 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 round out a very good dinner for two. Ah! le voila!"

She wound up her rapid summary of culinary delights with the charming eagerness of a child, bringing forth from the folds of her dress a small 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 impulsive good-nature, was at first embarrassed, then stupefied. He was unable to utter a word. He was ashamed of his own weakness; he was overwhelmed by the sense of her impetuous good-will and practical human sympathy. He silently pressed the thin hand which had unconsciously crept into his.

"No, it is nothing," she said, lightly, withdrawing her hand. "I have plenty to-day,—you will have it some other day; and then you can give me 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 few hundred francs to his credit and a few louis in his pocket at that moment,—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 of camaraderie experienced by those in the same run of luck as to the world's goods, and with that buoyancy of spirit which attends a good action. The few francs and odd sous in the little purse were abundant for to-day,—the morrow could take care of itself.

They turned up the narrow Rue Royer-Collard, where she stopped for the litre of Bordeaux, responding gayly to the wayside queries and comments. Reaching the Rue St. Jacques, there were the salad and the cheese to add to the necessary part of the French meal; and the bit of beef and the inevitable onions brought up the rear of purchases.

"I have some potatoes and carrots," she said, reflectively,—"so much saved. 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 the passage of the tunnel.

"Not half bad," said he, compelled to admire her cleverness.

Reaching her chamber, she deposited the entire evening investment on the hearth, proceeding to the preliminary features of preparation. She threw her hat on the bed, then pulled off the light bolero and sent it after the hat, and then she began slipping out of her skirt by suddenly 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 nervously about, more doll-like than ever she was, in the short yellow silken petticoat with its terminating ruffles, or cheap lace balayeuse, her blonde hair loosely drooping over her ears and caught up behind in the prevailing fashion of the quarter. She kept up a continual chatter as she opened drawers, prepared the potatoes, and arranged the little table.

Poupon was already singing in the chimney-place. Her conversation, by habit, was mostly directed to her little oil-stove, as if it were a sentient thing, something to be encouraged by flattery and restrained by reproach. It was the camaraderie of loneliness.

But to Jean, who was quick to fall back into his own reveries, her voice died away into incomprehensible jargon. Once he glanced at the sketch still on the wall and thought of her purring over her work like a satisfied cat, then the next instant again forgot her. Now and then she bestowed a keen glance on him or a passing word, but left him no time to answer or to formulate any distinct idea as to what it was about. Suddenly she pounced upon him with,—

"Monsieur Marot?"

"Well?"

"You still live——"

"Faubourg St. Honore."

"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. "And here I thought you were—puree!"

"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 committed suicide because he was suddenly reduced to two hundred and fifty thousand francs. That was very drole, was it not?"

"To most people, yes; but it would not be funny for one who had been accustomed 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 of living; you sell your lease and furniture; you take a small place here somewhere, 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 for himself? Let the girl alone until you begin to see the way. Don't be ridiculous, 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 a measure to part company with the power of ratiocination. Nevertheless, Jean saw in an absent-minded way that Mlle. Fouchette, for whom he had never entertained even that casual respect accorded by the Anglo-Saxon to womanhood in general, spoke the words of sense and soberness. His intolerant nature, that would never have brooked such freedom from a friend, allowed everything from one who was too insignificant to excite resentment or even reply. In the same fashion Jean was touched by the exhibition of human interest and womanly sympathy in this waif of civilization. And he was of too gentle a heart not to meet it with a show of appreciation. It gave her pleasure and did not hurt him. The fact that she was probably abandoned and vicious in no wise lessened this consideration,—possibly increased his confidence in her disinterested counsel.

In Paris one elbows this species every day,—in the Quartier Latin young Frenchmen come in contact with it every night,—and without that sense of self-abasement or disgust evoked by similar association in the United States. The line of demarcation that separates respectability from shame is not rigidly drawn in Paris; in the Quartier Latin, where the youth of France and, to a considerable extent, of the whole world are prepared for earth and heaven, it cannot be said to be drawn at all.

By his misfortunes Jean Marot had unexpectedly fallen within her reach. With her natural spirit of domination she had at once appropriated the position of mentor and manager. The precocious worldliness of her mentality amused while it sometimes astonished him. This comparatively ignorant girl of eighteen had no hesitation in guiding the man of more mature years, and succeeded through her naivete rather than by force of character. The weakest of women can dominate the strongest of men.

"Doctors never prescribe for themselves," she said, by way of justifying 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 a teacup and served it in a bowl; but the soup was just as good and was rich with vegetable nutrition. He showed his appreciation by a vigorous 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 much risk. As it is—have some more wine?—But who understands love better than a woman, monsieur?"

"Oh, I surrender, mademoiselle,—that is, provided she has loved and loves no longer."

"Been sick and been cured, eh?" she suggested. "But that is more than you require of the medical profession."

"True——"

He paused and listened. She turned her head at the same moment. There were two distinct raps on the wall. He had heard, vaguely, the sound of persons coming and going next door; had distinguished voices in the next flat. There was nothing strange about that. But the knock was the knock 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 her overskirt. The feminine inhabitants of Rue St. Jacques were so extremely unconventional,—they not infrequently went down into the street for rolls and other articles attired in this charming negligee of the bedroom boudoir. And would, perhaps, have extended this unconventionality to the neighboring cafes, only the proprietaires had to draw a line somewhere, and had unanimously drawn it at hats and skirts, or full street dress.

Jean began to think himself entirely deserted, when Mlle. Fouchette burst rather than walked into the room conducting her next-door neighbor.

Jean saw before him a man scarcely older than himself, rather spare of figure and pale of face, in the garb of a provincial and with an air of the Jesuit enthusiast rather than the student of art. His long, dark hair was thick and bushy and worn trimmed straight around the neck after the fashion of Jeanne d'Arc's time. It completely hid his ears and fell in sprays over his temples. His face was the typical Christ of the old masters, the effect being heightened by the soft, fine, virgin beard and moustache of somewhat fairer color, and by the melancholy eyes, dark and luminous, with their curled and drooping lashes. These eyes gave rather a suggestion of sadness and inward suffering, but when animated seemed to glow with the smouldering fire of centuries.

"Pardon, Monsieur de Beauchamp," said Jean, upon being introduced to him, "but mademoiselle appears to have forgotten me for art."

"Ah! and as if there were no art in making a salad!" exclaimed the painter, as he shook hands with the other.

"Oh! la, la, la!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, wresting the dish from Jean's grasp; "there would be precious little art in this if you made it!" And she proceeded with the salad on her own account, using the two bowls 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 who differed from the military regime were known—had announced a public meeting, and a counter-demonstration had been called to not only prevent that meeting but to publicly chastise such as dared to take part in it.

No attempt was made to conceal these patriotic intentions from the police. The walls blazed with flaming revolutionary posters. The portrait of the Duc d'Orleans appeared over specious promises in case of Restoration. The Royal Claimant was said to be concealed in Paris. At any rate, his agents were busy. They were in league with the Bonapartists, the Socialists, the Anti-Semites, against the things that were, and called the combination Nationalists. They were really Opportunists. The republic overthrown, they agreed to fight out their rival claims to power between themselves.

The unfortunate Jew merely served them as a weapon. They were the real traitors to their country. With the most fulsome adulation and the Jew they courted the army and sought to lead it against the republic.

And the republic,—poor, weak, headless combination of inconsistencies,—through a tricky and vacillating Ministry and a bitter, factional Parliament, greatly encouraged the idea of any sort of a change.

Popular intolerance had, after a farcical civil trial overawed by military authority, driven the foremost writer of France into exile, as it had Voltaire and Rousseau and many thousands of the best blood of the French before him.

The many noble monuments of the Paris carrefours, representing the elite of France, the heroes, the apostles of letters and liberty, who were murdered, exiled, denied Christian burial or dragged through the streets after death by Frenchmen, stand morally united in one grand monumental fane commemorative of French intolerance.

Wherever is reared a monument to French personal worth, there also is a mute testimonial of collective French infamy.

"Dans la rue!" was now the battle-cry.

All of these student "manifestations" were seized upon by the worst elements of Paris. The estimable character of these elements found in the Place Maubert and vicinity may be surmised from the fact that a few days previous to the event about to be herein recorded twenty men of the neighborhood were chosen to maintain its superiority to the Halles Centrales against a like number selected by the latter.

The contending factions were drawn up in order of battle in Place Maubert, on Boulevard St. Germain, in broad afternoon, each man being armed with a knife, and precipitated an engagement that required one hundred police reserves to quell.

"If we could only keep that pestiferous gang out of our manifestations," said Jean now to Monsieur de Beauchamp,—"they disgrace us always!"