"There! no offence, little one. Am I not your brother?" he asked, laughing.

She nervously readjusted her blonde hair before the little glass and did not reply. But it was evident that she was not very angry, for Mlle. Fouchette was explosive and went off at a rude touch.

At the same moment a terrible racket rose from the stairway,—the sound of a woman's voice and blows and the howling of a dog. Leaning over the banister the young couple saw a woman, short, broad, bareheaded, and angry, wielding a broom-handle. The passage was rather narrow, so that more than half of the whacks at the dog were spent upon 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 quite sacred. Rome was saved by geese, pigeons are venerated in Venice. Dogs preserved Paris in the fearful day of the great siege by suffering themselves to be turned into soups, steaks, sausage, etc. Since which Paris has become the dog paradise, where all good dogs go when they die. They not only have the right of way everywhere, but the exclusive right of the sunny sidewalks in winter and shady side in summer. A Frenchman will beat his wife, or stab his mistress in the back, club his horses fiendishly, but he will never raise hand or foot against a dog.

From every landing came a burst of remonstrance and indignation. Vituperative language peculiar to a neighborhood that has enjoyed the intimate society of two thousand years of accumulated human wisdom and intellectual greatness, and embellished and decorated by the old masters, rose and fell upon the sinful dog-beater, with the effect of increasing the blows.

Suddenly three persons sprang to the rescue, two from below and one from 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 poor little Tu-tu she precipitated herself upon the enemy.

The latter turned her weapon upon the new-comer just as the two men from below grabbed her. This diversion enabled the infuriated dog-owner to plant both hands in the enemy's hair, which came off at the 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 hair was false.

But the dog-beater was just as angry as if it had been ripped from its original and virgin pasture, and she uttered a shriek that was heard around the block and grappled her three assailants.

The whole four, a struggling composite mass of legs and arms, went rolling down to the next landing surrounded by a special and lurid atmosphere of oaths.

There they were arrested by the aroused police agents.

Poor little Tu-tu had stopped howling. He was dead,—crushed under the human 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 the broad stone steps leading to the Hotel Dieu, the famous hospital fronting on the plaza of Notre Dame.

"I will wait," he said.

"Yes; I will inquire," she assented. "I was here last night." And Mlle. Fouchette ran lightly up the steps and entered the palatial court.

Another woman was hastily walking in the opposite direction. She bent her head and quickened her steps as if to avoid recognition.

"Why, it is Madeleine!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself in the way.

A face stamped with the marks of dissipation and haggard with watching was raised to meet this greeting. The one big, round, dark orb gleamed upon the speaker almost fiercely.

"So you're here again," muttered the one-eyed grisette, in her deep voice.

"It seems so. I wish to find out how he is."

"What business is it of yours?"

"Oh, come, now, Madeleine; you're all upset. You look worn out. You have been here all night?"

"Ah, ca! it is nothing. Have I not been up all night more than once?"

"And monsieur——"

"They say he is better."

"You have seen him, then?"

"No; they would not allow me. Besides, there is his sister."

"Is she with him now?"

"Not now. They sent her away in the night. She will be back this morning."

"Poor girl!"

"But what is all this to you? Why are you here? Does the Ministry——"

"Madeleine!"

But the tigerish look that swept over Mlle. Fouchette's face gave way to confusion when the grisette quickly shifted her ground.

"Monsieur Marot, I suppose."

"Yes, Madeleine."

"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry, Madeleine."

"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"

"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once more."

The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle. Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the search was vain.

"Ah! very well, petite," the searcher finally said, with a sigh. "Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each other like wild beasts."

Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck were as plain as print.

They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?

"Mademoiselle!"

The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.

"You know that a reconciliation between these men means——"

"That Jean Marot will be thrown into the arms of the woman he loves," was the bold interpolation.

"Exactly."

"That is what I wish."

The dark eye gleamed again, and the breast heaved. It must be Lerouge! Jealousy places the desirability of its subject above everything. It must be Lerouge.

"Chut! Here she comes," whispered Mlle. Fouchette.

It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt of which cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hair puffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blue eyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into a questioning smile as she extended her small hand.

"Oh, Monsieur Lerouge is much better, mademoiselle," said Madeleine.

"Thank you!—thank you for your good news, my dear," Mlle. Remy warmly replied.

She turned towards Mlle. Fouchette a little nervously, and Madeleine introduced them.

"It is strange, Mademoiselle Fouchette," observed Mlle. Remy; "could I have met you before?"

"I think not, mademoiselle. One meets people on the boulevards——"

"No, I don't mean that,—a long time ago, somewhere,—not in Paris."

Mlle. Remy was trying to think.

"Perhaps you confuse me with somebody else, mademoiselle."

"Scarcely, since I do not remember seeing anybody who resembled you. No, it is not that, surely."

"One often fancies——"

"But my brother Henri thought so too, which is very curious. May I ask you if your name——"

"Just Fouchette, mademoiselle. I never heard of any other——"

"I am from Nantes," interrupted Mlle. Remy. "Think!"

"And I am only a child of the streets of Paris, mademoiselle," said Mlle. Fouchette, humbly.

"Ah!"

Mlle. Remy sighed.

"Mademoiselle Fouchette and Monsieur Marot have come to learn the news of your brother," said Madeleine, seeing the latter approaching.

Jean Marot had, in fact, followed Mlle. Remy inside of the building, but having been overtaken by timidity for the first time in his life, had hesitated at a little distance in the rear. He could stand the suspense no longer.

"Monsieur Marot, Mademoiselle——"

"Oh, we have met before, monsieur, have we not?" asked Mlle. Remy, lightly. "I thank you very much for——"

Jean felt his heart beating against the ribbed walls of its prison as if it would burst forth to attest its love for her. He had often conjured up this meeting and rehearsed what he would say to her. Now his lips were dumb. He could only look and listen.

And this was she whom he loved!

In the mean time Mlle. Remy, who had flushed a little under the intense scrutiny she felt but could not understand, grew visibly uneasy. She detected a sign from Mlle. Fouchette.

He had unconsciously disclosed the telltale marks upon his neck.

At the sight Mlle. Remy grew pale. There was much about this young man that recalled her brother Henri, even these terrible finger-marks. All at once she remembered the meeting of Mardi Gras, when her brother insulted him and pulled her away.

Why?

It was because this young Marot admired her, and because he and her brother were enemies. She saw it now for the first time. Paris was full of political enemies. Yet, in awe of her brother's judgment and like a well-bred French girl, she dared not raise her eyes to his,—with the half-minute of formalities she hurried away. But as she turned she gave him one quick glance that combined politeness, shyness, fear, curiosity, and pity,—a glance that went straight to his heart and increased its tumult.

A pair of sharp, steel-blue eyes regarded him furtively, and, while half veiled by the long lashes, lost not a breath or gesture of this meeting and parting,—saw Jean standing, hat in hand, partly bowed, speechless, with his soul in his handsome face.

The one black eye of the maimed grisette saw only Mlle. Fouchette. If that scrutiny could not fathom Mlle. Fouchette's mind, it was perhaps because the mind of Mlle. Fouchette was not sufficiently clear.

"Allons!" said the latter young woman, in a tone that scarcely broke his revery.

There is often more expression in a simple touch than in a multitude of words. The unhappy grisette felt this from the sympathetic hand of the young man slipped into hers at parting. At a little distance she turned to see Jean and Mlle. Fouchette enter a cab and drive towards the right bank.

"Ca!" she murmured, "but if that petite moucharde had a heart it would be his!"

During the next half-hour Mlle. Fouchette unconsciously gained greatly in Jean's estimation by saying nothing. They went to the Credit Lyonnais, in Boulevard des Italiens, to Rue St. Honore, to the "agent de location,"—getting money, taking a list of furniture, seeing about the sale of his lease. In all of this business Mlle. Fouchette showed such a clear head and quick calculation that from first being amused, Jean at last leaned upon her implicitly.

The next day was spent in arranging his new quarters, Mlle. Fouchette issuing general direction, to the constant discomfiture of the worthy Benoit, thus deprived of unknown perquisites.

When this work of installation had been completed, Jean found himself with comfortable quarters in the Rue St. Jacques at a saving of nearly two thousand four hundred francs.

"There!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette.

"At last!" said Jean.

"Now," Mlle. Fouchette began, with enthusiasm, "I'm going to get dinner!"

"Oh, not to-day! Allons donc! We must celebrate by dinner at the restaurant."

"But it's a sinful waste of money, when one has such a sweet range,—and you must economize, monsieur."

"All right," he replied,—"to-morrow."

It is a popular plan of economy, that which begins to-morrow.

"Yes, to-morrow; to-morrow you shall have your way. To-day I have mine. Why, what a parsimonious little wretch you are! And have you not been devoting all of your time and working hard for me these five days?"

"Ah! Monsieur Jean——"

"We will treat ourselves to a good dinner au boulevard. You have been my best friend——"

"Oh, Monsieur Jean!"

"Are my best friend," he added. "I really don't see how I could have gotten on without you."

"Ah! Monsieur Jean!"

"You have saved me hundreds of francs,—you are such a good little manager!"

Nothing up to that moment had ever given Mlle. Fouchette half the pleasure bestowed with this praise. Mlle. Fouchette blushed. Jean saw this blush and laughed. It was so funny to see Mlle. Fouchette blush. This made Mlle. Fouchette blush still deeper. In fact, it seemed as if all the warm blood that had been concealed in Mlle. Fouchette's system so long had taken an upward tendency and now disported itself about her neck and face.

Jean would have kissed her, only she repulsed him angrily; then, seeing his surprise and confusion, she covered her face with her hands and laughed hysterically.

"Mademoiselle——"

"Stop, stop, stop! I knew what you were going to say! It was money again!"

"Really, mademoiselle——"

"It was! You did! You know you did! And you know how I hate it! Don't you dare to offer me money, because I love——" Mlle. Fouchette choked here a little,—"because I love to help you, Monsieur Jean!"

"But I was not thinking of offering you money for your kindness, mon enfant." Jean took this play for safety as genuine wrath.

"You were going to; you know you were!" she retorted, defiantly.

"Well, I suppose I may offer to repay the louis I borrowed the other day?"

"Oh, yes! I'll make you pay your debts, monsieur,—never fear that!"

She began to recover her equilibrium, and smiled confidently in his face. But he was now serious.

"There are some debts one can never pay," said he.

"Never! never! never!" she exclaimed. "Monsieur, whatever I might do, I owe you still! It will always be so!"

"Uh! Uh! That's barred, petite."

He stopped walking up and down and looked into her earnest eyes without grasping her meaning. "She is more feminine than one would suppose," he said to himself,—"almost interesting, really!"

"Come!" he cried, suddenly, "this is straying from the subject, which is dinner. Come!"

"We'd have to do some marketing, anyhow," she admitted, as if arguing with herself. "Perhaps it is better to go out."

"Most assuredly."

"Not at any fashionable place, Monsieur Jean——"

"Oh, no; is there any such place in the quarter?" he laughingly asked.

"Can't we go over on the other side?"

"Yes, my child, certainly."

"I know a place in Montmartre where one may dine en fete for two francs and a half, cafe compris." She was getting on her things, and for the first time was conscious of the hole in the heel of her stocking.

"There is the Cafe 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 Hotel du Louvre table-d'hote, four francs,—very good, too."

"It is too fashionable,—too many Americans."

"Parbleu! one can be an American for one meal, can he not? They say Americans live well in their own country. They have meat three times a day,—even the poorest laborers."

"And eat meat for breakfast,—it is horrible!"

"Yes,—they are savages."

After discussing the various places and finding that his ideas of a good dining-place were somewhat more enlarged than her ideas, Mlle. Fouchette finally brought him down to a Bouillon in Boule' Miche',—the student appellation for Boulevard St. Michel. She would have preferred any other quarter of the city, though not earnestly enough to stand out for it.

They settled on the Cafe Weber, opposite the ancient College d'Harcourt, a place of the Bouillon order, with innumerable dishes graded up from twenty centimes to a franc and an additional charge of ten centimes for the use of a napkin.

Wine aside, a better meal for less money can be had in a score of places on Broadway. In the matter of wine, the New York to the Paris price would be as a dollar to the franc.

In the Quartier Latin these places are patronized almost exclusively by the student class. Not less than fifty of the latter were at table in the Cafe Weber when Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette entered. Here and there among them were a few grisettes and as many cocottes of the Cafe 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 employes and a winning smile and nod for familiar customers.

There was a perceptible sensation upon the entrance of the last comers. A momentary hush was succeeded by a general buzz of conversation, the subject of which was quite easily understood. The stately dame du comptoir immediately opened her little wicket and came down from her perch to show the couple to the best seats, a courtesy rarely extended by that impersonation of restaurant dignity. The hungry women almost stopped eating to see what man was in tow of the "Savatiere."

"We are decidedly an event," laughingly observed Jean as they became seated where they could command the general crowd at table.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the dame du comptoir, though his remark had not been addressed to that lady,—"the fame of the brave Monsieur Marot is well known in the quarter. And—and mademoiselle," she added, sweetly, "mademoiselle—well, everybody knows mademoiselle."

With this under-cut at Mlle. Fouchette the rosy-cheeked cashier left them in charge of the waitress of that particular table.

"You see, Monsieur Jean," said his companion, not at all pleased by this reception, "we are both pretty well known here."

"So it seems. Yet I was never in here before, if I remember correctly."

"Nor I," said she, "but once or twice."

Notoriety is fame to Frenchmen, and while he did not yet fully comprehend it, Jean Marot had reached this sort of fame in a single day. His name had been actively and even viciously discussed in the newspapers. He was accused of being both royalist and anti-Dreyfusarde by the ultra republican press. He was said to be a Bonapartist. The Dreyfusarde papers declared that the government had connived at his discharge from prison. The nationalist papers lauded him as a patriot. One extravagant writer compared him to the celebrated Camille Desmoulins who led the great Revolution. A noisy deputation had called upon him in the Rue St. Honore to find that he had not been seen there since the riot.

Of all of this Jean Marot actually knew less than any other well-informed person in Paris. Being wholly absorbed in his domestic affairs, he had scarcely more than glanced at a newspaper, and did not at this moment know that his name had ever been printed in the Paris journals. The few acquaintances he had met had congratulated him for something, and some students he did not know had raised their hats to him in the streets; and once he had been saluted by a class procession with desultory cries of "Vive Marot!" Mere rioting was then too common in Paris to excite particular attention individually.

But Jean Marot had been magnified by newspaper controversy into a formidable political leader; besides which there were young men here who had followed him a few days before in the riots. Therefore he was now the cynosure of curious attention.

From admiring glances the crowd of diners quickly passed to complimentary language intended for his ears.

"He's a brave young man!" "You should have seen him that day!" "Ah, but he's a fighter, is M. Marot!" "Un bon camarade!" "He is a patriot!" etc.

These broken expressions were mingled with sly allusions to Mlle. Fouchette from the women, who were consumed by envy. They had heard of the Savatiere's conquest with disbelief, now they saw it with their own eyes. The brazen thing! She was showing him off.

"She's caught on at last."

"Monsieur has more money than taste."

"Is he as rich as they say?"

"The skinny model."

"Model, bah!"

"Model for hair-pin, probably."

"The airs of that kicker!"

"He might have got a prettier mistress without trying hard."

"He'll find her a devil."

"Oh, there's no doubt about it. He has fitted up an elegant appartement for her in the Rue St. Jacques."

"Rue St. Jacques. Faugh!"

It should be unnecessary to say that these encomiums were not designed for the ears of Mlle. Fouchette, though the said ears must have burned with self-consciousness. But it may be well enough to remark that despite the spleen the object of it had risen immensely in the estimation of the female as well as the male habitues of Cafe Weber.

As the couple occupied a table in the extreme rear, the patrons in front found it convenient to go out by way of the Rue Champollion in order to see if not to bow to the distinguished guest.

The apparent fact that the new political leader had taken up with one of the most notorious women of the Quartier Latin in no way detracted from their esteem for him,—rather lent an agreeable piquancy to his character. On the other hand, it raised Mlle. Fouchette to a certain degree of respectability.

These demonstrations annoyed our young gentleman very much. Nothing but this patent fact saved them from a general reception.

"It is provoking!" exclaimed his companion.

"I don't understand it at all," said he.

"I do," replied Mlle. Fouchette.

"And, see, little one, I don't like it."

"I knew you wouldn't, and that is why I suggested the right bank of the river."

"True,—I always make a mistake when I don't follow your advice. Have some more wine,—I call that good."

"It ought to be at two francs a bottle," she retorted.

"My father would call this rank poison, but it goes."

"Poor me! I never tasted any better," laughed the girl, sipping the wine with the air of a connaisseuse. "A litre a cinquante is my tipple," she said.

"Now, what the devil do all these people mean?" he asked, when a party had passed them with a slight demonstration.

"That you are famous, monsieur. I wish we had remained at home."

"So do I, petite," he said.

"Let us take our coffee there, at least," she suggested.

"Good!" he cried,—"by all means!"

They were soon installed in his small salon, where she quickly spread a table of dainty china. She had agreed with him in keeping his pictures, bric-a-brac, and prettiest dishes.

"Ah! they are so sweet!" she would say. "Now here is a lovely blue cup for you. I take the dear little pink one,—it's as delicate as an egg-shell,—Sevres, surely! And here's some of my coffee. It is not as good, perhaps, as you are used to, but——"

"Oh, I'm used to anything,—except being stared at and mobbed by a lot of curious chaps as if I were a calf with six legs, or had run off with the President's daughter, or——"

"Or committed murder, eh?" said she. "People always stare at murderers, do they not? Still, it isn't really bad, you know," abruptly returning to the coffee, "with a petit verre and cigarette."

"Au contraire," he retorted, gayly.

And over their coffee and cognac and cigarettes, surrounded by his tasteful belongings, shut in by the heavy damask hangings, under the graceful wreaths of smoke, they formed a very pretty picture. He, robust, dark, manly; she, frail, delicate, blonde, and distinctively feminine.

The comfort of it all smote them alike. The conversation soon became forced, then ceased, leaving each silently immersed in thought.

But Mlle. Fouchette welcomed this interval of silence with a satisfaction inexpressible. She, too, was under the spell of the place and the occasion. Mlle. Fouchette was not a sentimental woman, as we have seen; but she had recently been undergoing a mental struggle that taxed all her practical common sense. She found now that she saw things more clearly.

The result frightened her.

Mlle. Fouchette felt that she was happy, therefore she was frightened.

She experienced a mysterious glow of gladness—the gladness of mere living—in her veins. It permeated her being and filled her heart with warm desires.

This feeling had been stealing upon her so gradually and insidiously that she had never realized it until this moment,—the moment when it had taken full possession of her soul.

"I love him! I love him!" she repeated to herself. "I have struggled against it,—I have denied it. I did not want to do it,—it is misery! But I can't help it,—I love him! I, Fouchette, the spy, who would have betrayed him, who wronged him, who thought love impossible!"

She did not try to deceive herself. She knew that at this moment, when her heart was so full of him, he was thinking of another woman,—a beautiful and pure being that was worthy of his love,—that he had forgotten her very existence. She had not the remotest idea of trying to attract that love to herself. She did not even indulge in the pardonable girlish dreams in which "If" is the principal character.

He was as impossible to her as the pyramids of Egypt. Therefore she was frightened.

"Mon Dieu! but I surely do love him!" She communed with her poor little bursting heart. "And it is beautiful to love!" She sighed deeply.

"Mademoiselle!"

She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heard her sigh, and felt the hot blood mantle her neck again,—for the second time within her memory.

"Pardon! mademoiselle," he said, gently, "I forgot. I was thinking——"

"Of her? Yes,—I know. It is—how you startled me!"

There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he moved his chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in the usual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a low divan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to have him touch her.

"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone.

"Bah! it is nothing," she murmured; "and nothing magnified is still nothing."

There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged with tenderness. He came over and stood beside her.

"I was thinking——"

"Of her,—yes,—I understand——"

"And I lose myself in my love," he added.

"Yes; love! Oui da!"

She laughed a little hysterically and shrugged the thin shoulders without changing her position.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, pityingly, "you do not know what love is!"

"Me? No! Why should I?"

She never once looked up at him. She dared not.

"And yet you once said love was everything," he continued, thinking only of himself.

"Yes,—everything," she repeated, mechanically. "Did I say that?"

"And you spoke truly, though I did not know it then——"

"No,—I did not know it then," she repeated, absently.

In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.

"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted him among the stars.

Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering heap.



CHAPTER XVII

As a medical student, as well as habitue of the quarter, Jean Marot was not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon had Mlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again.

He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similar circumstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse to over-excitement in arranging his affairs.

Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of his manipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. When she finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelled hair and gently bathing her face with his wet handkerchief.

"Don't be alarmed, mon enfant," he said, cheerily, "you are all right. But you have worked too hard——"

"Oh! no, no, no!" she interrupted. "And it has been such a pleasure!"

"Yes; but too much pleasure——"

She sighed. Her eyes were wet,—she tried to turn them away.

"Hold on, petite! none of that!"

"Then you must not talk to me in that way,—not now!"

"No? And pray, how, then, mademoiselle?"

"Talk of—tell me of your love, monsieur, mon ami. You were speaking of it but now. Tell me of that, please. It is so—love is so beautiful, Monsieur Jean! Talk to me of her,—of Mademoiselle Remy. I have a woman's curiosity, monsieur, mon frere."

It was the first time she had called him brother. She had risen upon her elbow and nervously laid her small hand upon his.

She invited herself to the torture. It had an irresistible fascination for her. She gave the executioner the knife and begged him to explore and lay bare her bleeding heart.

"But, mon enfant——"

"Oh! it will do me good to hear you," she pleaded.

It does not require much urging to induce a young man in love to talk about his passion to a sympathetic listener. And there never was time or place more propitious or auditor more tender of spirit.

He began at the beginning, when he first met Mlle. Remy with Lerouge, every detail of which was fixed upon his memory. He told how he sought her in Rue Monge, how Lerouge interposed, how he quarrelled with his friend, how the latter changed his address and kept the girl under close confinement to prevent his seeing her,—Jean was certain of this.

Monsieur Lerouge had a right to protect his sister, even against his late friend; and even if she had been his mistress, Jean now argued, Lerouge was justified; but love is something that in the Latin rises superior to obstacles, beats down all opposition, is obstinate, unreasonable, and uncharitable.

When Mlle. Fouchette, going straight to the core of the matter, asked him what real ground he had for presuming that his attentions, if permitted, would have been agreeable to Mlle. Remy, Jean confessed reluctantly that there were no reasons for any conclusion on this point.

"But," he wound up, impetuously, "when she knows—if she knew—how I worship her she must respond to my affection. A love such as mine could not be forever resisted, mademoiselle. I feel it! I know it!"

"Yes, Monsieur Jean, it would be impossible to—to not——"

"You think so, too, chere amie?"

"Very sure," said Mlle. Fouchette.

"Now you can understand, Fouchette. You are a woman. Put yourself in her place,—imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. And you look something like her, really,—that is, at least you have the exact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! Suppose you were Mademoiselle Remy, I was going to say, and I were to tell you all this and—and how much I loved you,—how I adored you,—and got down on my knees to you and begged of you——"

"Oh!"

"And asked you for a corner—one small corner in your heart——"

"Ah! mon ami!"

"What would you——"

"Shall I show you, mon frere?"

"Yes—quickly!"

He had, with French gesture, suiting the action to the word, knelt beside her and extended his arms, as if it were the woman he loved.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself upon his breast precipitately and entwining his neck with her arms,—"it would be this! It would be this! Ah! mon Dieu! It surely would be this!"

For the moment Jean was so carried away by his imagination that he accepted Mlle. Fouchette as Mlle. Remy and pressed her to his heart. He mingled his tears and kisses with hers. Her fair hair fell upon his face and he covered it with passionate caresses. He poured out the endearing words of a heart surcharged with love. It was a very clever make-believe on both sides,—very clever and realistic.

As a medical adviser of an hysterical young woman Jean Marot could scarcely have been recommended.

And it must be remarked, in the same connection, that Mlle. Fouchette remained in this embrace a good deal longer than even a clever imitation seemed to demand. However, since the real thing could not have lasted forever, there must be a limitation to this rehearsal. Both had become silent and thoughtful.

It was Mlle. Fouchette who first moved to disengage, and she did so with a sigh so profound as to appear quite real. This was the second, and she felt it would be the last time. They would never again hold each other thus. Her eyes were red and swollen and her dishevelled hair stuck to her tear-stained face. She was not at all pretty at the moment, yet Jean would have gone to the wood of St. Cloud sword in hand to prove her the best-hearted little woman in the world.

"Voila!" she exclaimed, with affected gayety, "how foolish I am, monsieur! But you are so eloquent of your passion that you carry one away with you."

"I hope it will have that effect upon Mademoiselle Remy," he said, but rather doubtfully.

"So I have given a satisfactory——"

"So real, indeed, Fouchette, that I almost forgot it was only you."

Mademoiselle Fouchette was bending over the basin.

"I think"—splash—"that I'll"—splash—"go on the stage," she murmured.

"You'd be a hit, Fouchette."

"If I had a lover—er—equal to the occasion, perhaps."

"Oh! as to that——"

"Now, Monsieur Jean, we have not yet settled your affair," she interrupted, throwing herself again upon the divan among the cushions.

"No; not quite," said he.

She tried to think connectedly. But everything seemed such a jumble. And out of this chaos of thought came the details of the miserable part she had played.

Her part!

What if he knew that she was merely the wretched tool of the police? What would he say if he came to know that she had once reported his movements at the Prefecture? And what would he do if he were aware that she knew the true relation of Lerouge and Mlle. Remy and had intentionally misled both him and Madeleine?

Fortunately, Mlle. Fouchette had been spared the knowledge of the real cause of Madeleine's misfortune,—the jealous grisette whom she had set on to worse than murder.

But she was thinking only of Jean Marot now. Love had awakened her soul to the enormity of her offence. It also caused her to suffer remorse for her general conduct. Before she loved she never cared; she had never suffered mentally. Now she was on the rack. She was being punished.

Love had furrowed the virgin ground of her heart and turned up self-consciousness and conscience, and sowed womanly sweetness, and tenderness, and pity, and humility, and the sensitiveness to pain.

Mlle. Fouchette, living in the shadow of the world's greatest educational institutions, was, perhaps naturally, a heathen. She feared neither God nor devil.

Jean Marot was her only tangible idea of God. His contempt would be her punishment. To live where he was not would be Hell.

To secure herself against this damnation she was ready to sacrifice anything,—everything! She would have willingly offered herself to be cuffed and beaten every day of her life by him, and would have worshipped him and kissed the hand that struck her.

Perhaps, after all, the purest and holiest love is that which stands ready to sacrifice everything to render its object happy; that, blotting out self and trampling natural desire underfoot, thinks only of the one great aim and end, the happiness of the beloved.

This was the instinct now of the girl who struggled with her emotions, who sought a way out that would accomplish that end very much desired by her as well as Jean. There was at the same time a faint idea that her own material happiness lay in the same direction.

"Monsieur Jean!"

"Well?"

"You must make friends with Lerouge."

"But, mon enfant, if——"

"There are no 'buts' and 'ifs.' You must make friends with the brother or you can never hope to win his sister. That is clear. Write to him,—apologize to him,—anything——"

"I don't just see my way open," he began. "You can't apologize to a man who tries to assassinate you on sight."

"You were friends before that day in the Place de la Concorde?"

"We had not come to blows."

"Politics,—is that all?"

"That is all that divides us, and, parbleu! it divides a good many in France just now."

"Yes. Monsieur Jean, you must change your politics," she promptly responded.

"Wha-at? Never! Why——"

"Not for the woman you love?"

"But, Fouchette, you don't understand, mon enfant. A gentleman can't change his politics as he does his coat."

"Men do, monsieur,—men do,—yes, every day."

"But——"

"What does it amount to, anyhow?—politics? Bah! One side is just like the other side."

"Oh! oh!"

"Half of them don't know. It's only the difference between celui-ci and celui-la. You must quit ci and join la, n'est-ce pas?"

Mlle. Fouchette laid this down as if it were merely a choice between mutton and lamb chops for dinner. But Jean Marot walked impatiently up and down.

"You overlook the possible existence of such a thing as principle,—as honor, mademoiselle," he observed, somewhat coldly.

"Rubbish!" said Mlle. Fouchette.

"Oh! oh! what political morals!" he laughingly exclaimed, with an affectation of horror.

"There are no morals in politics."

"Precious little, truly!"

"Principles are a matter of belief,—political principles. You change your belief,—the principles go with it; you can't desert 'em,—they follow you. It is the rest of them, those who disagree with you, who never have any principles. Is it not so, monsieur?"

He laughed the more as he saw that she was serious. And yet there was a nipping satire in her words that tickled his fancy.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted this political argument. A peculiar, diffident, apologetic knock, like the forerunner of the man come to borrow money. There was a red bell-cord hanging outside, too, but the rap came from somebody too timid to make a noise.

Mlle. Fouchette started up as if it were the signal for execution. She turned pale, and placed her finger on her lips. Then, with a significant glance at Jean, she gathered herself together and tiptoed to a closet in the wall.

She entered the closet and closed the door softly upon herself.

Jean had regarded her with surprise, then with astonishment. He saw no reason for this singular development of timidity. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently he opened the door.

A tall, thin man quietly stepped into the room, as quietly shut the door behind him, and addressed the young man briskly,—

"Monsieur Marot?"

"Yes, monsieur, at your service."

"So."

"And this is—ah! I remember—this is——"

"Inspector Loup."

The fishy eyes of Monsieur l'Inspecteur had been swimming about in their fringed pools, taking in every detail of the chamber. They penetrated the remotest corners, plunged at the curtains of the bed, and finally rested for a wee little moment upon the two cups and saucers, the two empty glasses, the two spoons, which still remained on the table. And yet had not Inspector Loup called attention to the fact one would never have suspected that he had seen anything.

"Pardon, Monsieur Marot," he said, half behind his hand, "but I am not disturbing any quiet little—er——"

"Not yet, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," replied the young man, suggestively. "Go on, I beg."

"Ah! not yet? Good! Very well,—then I will try not to do so."

Whereupon Monsieur l'Inspecteur dived down into a deep pocket and brought up a package neatly wrapped in pink paper and sealed with a red seal.

The package bore the address of "M. Jean Marot."

"May I ask if Monsieur Marot can divine the contents of this parcel?"

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur will pardon me,—I'm not good at guessing."

"Monsieur missed some personal property after his arrest——"

"If that is my property," Jean interrupted, brusquely, "it ought to be a gold watch, hunting case, chronometer, Geneva make, with eighteen-carat gold chain, dragon-head design for hook; a bunch of keys, seven in number, and a door-key, and about one hundred and eighty francs in paper, gold, and silver."

"Very good. Excellent memory, monsieur. It ought to serve you well enough to keep out of such brawls hereafter. Here,—examine!"

Hastily opening the package, Jean found his watch and chain and everything else intact, so far as he could recollect. He expressed his delight,—and when his grasp left the thin hand of the police official it was to leave a twenty-franc gold piece there.

"Will monsieur kindly sign this receipt?" inquired Monsieur l'Inspecteur, whose hand had closed upon the coin with true official instinct.

"But how and where did they get the things back?" inquired Jean, having complied with this reasonable request.

"I know nothing about that," said the man.

"And how did they know I had lost them? I never complained."

"Then perhaps somebody else did, eh?"

The bright little fishy right eye partially closed to indicate a roguish expression.

"Bon soir, monsieur."

And with another wink which meant "You can't fool me, young man," he was gone.

"Well, this is luck!" muttered Jean aloud. He examined the watch lovingly. It was a present from his father. "But how did they get these? how did they know they were mine? and how did they know where I lived? Who asked——"

He went back to the closet and told Mlle. Fouchette the coast was clear. There was no answer. He tried the door. It was locked. She had turned the key on the inside.

"Mademoiselle! Come!"

He waited and listened. Not a sound.

"Mademoiselle! Ah, ca! He is gone long ago!"

Still not a stir. Perhaps she was asleep,—or, maybe,—why, she would smother in that place!

He kicked the door impatiently. He got down upon his breast and put his ear to the crevice below. If she were prostrated he might hear her breathing.

All was silence.

This closet door was the merest sheathing, flush with the wall and covered with the same paper, after the fashion of the ancient Parisian appartements, and had nothing tangible to the grasp save the key, which was now on the inside. Jean tried to jostle this out of place by inserting other keys, but unsuccessfully.

"Sacre!" he cried, in despair; "but we'll see!"

And he hastily brought a combination poker and stove-lifter from the kitchen, and, inserting the sharp end in the crack near the lock, gave the improvised "jimmy" a vigorous wrench. The light wood-work flew in splinters.

At the same moment the interior of the closet was thus suddenly exposed to the uninterrupted view.

Jean recoiled in astonishment that was almost terror. If he had been confronted with the suspended corpse of Mlle. Fouchette he could have scarcely been more startled.

For Mlle. Fouchette was not there!

The cold sweat started out of him. He felt among his clothes,—passed his hand over the three remaining walls. They appeared solid enough.

"Que diable! but where is she, then?" he muttered.

He was dazed,—rendered incapable of reasoning. He went around vaguely examining his rooms, peering behind curtains and even moving bits of furniture, as if Mlle. Fouchette were the elusive collar-button and might have rolled out of sight somewhere among the furniture.

"Peste! this is astonishing!"

All of this time there was the lock with the key on the inside. Without being a spiritualist, Jean felt that nobody but spirits could come out of a room leaving the doors locked and the keys on the inside. But for that lock, he might have even set it down to optical illusion and have persuaded himself that perhaps she had really never entered that place at all.

As Jean Marot was not wholly given to illusions or superstitions, he logically concluded that there was some other outlet to that closet.

"And why such a thing as that?" he asked himself. What could it be for? Was it a trap? Perhaps it was a police souriciere? He remembered the warning of Benoit.

Jean hesitated,—quite naturally, since he was up to the tricks of the political police. If this were a trap, why, Mlle. Fouchette must have known all about it! Yet that would be impossible.

Then he thought of M. de Beauchamp, and his brow cleared. Whatever the arrangement, it could have never been designed with regard to the present occupant of the appartement,—and M. de Beauchamp had escaped.

He lighted a cigarette and took a turn or two up and down,—a habit of his when lost in thought.

"Ah! it is a door of love!" he concluded. "Yes; that is all. Well, we shall find out about that pretty soon."

The more he thought of the handsome, godlike artist who had so mysteriously fled, why, the more he recalled Mlle. Fouchette's confusion on a certain evening when he first called on her, and her recent disinclination to discuss his disappearance. He was now certain that this mysterious exit emptied into her room. He smiled at his own sagacity. His philosophy found the same expression of the cabman of Rue Monge,—

"Toujours de meme, ces femmes-la!"

He laughed at the trick she had played him; he would show her how quickly he had reached its solution. He went outside and tapped gently on her door.

No reply.

He tried the lock, but it was unyielding. Examination by the light of a match showed no key on the inside.

"Eh bien! I will go by the same route," he said, returning to his room.

He brought a lighted candle to bear on the magical closet. It proved to be, as stated, the ordinary blind closet of the ancient Parisian houses, the depth of the wall's thickness and about three feet wide; the door being flush with the wall and covered with the same paper, the opening was unnoticeable to the casual view.

All Parisian doors close with a snap-lock, and a key is indispensable. This knowledge is acquired by the foreigner after leaving his key on the inside a few times and hunting up a locksmith after midnight.

The back of these closets, which are used for cupboards as well as receptacles for clothing, abuts on the adjoining room, quite often, in a thin sheathing of lath and plaster, which, being covered with the wall-paper, is concealed from the neighboring eyes, but through which a listener may be constantly informed as to what is going on next door.

A superficial survey of the place having developed no unusual characteristics, Jean took down all of his clothing and emptied the closet of its contents to the last old shoe.

With the candle to assist him, he then carefully examined the rear wall.



CHAPTER XVIII

Mlle. Fouchette had her reasons for not wishing to meet Inspector Loup anywhere 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 had no more doubt than if she had been confronted by that official in person.

Therefore her flight.

The visit of Inspector Loup had the same effect upon Mlle. Fouchette that the unexpected appearance of the general of an army might have upon a sleepy picket-guard or a man off post. Inspector Loup was to her a sort of human monster—a moral devil-fish—that not even the cleverest could escape if he chose to reach out for them.

Mlle. Fouchette had been seized by the tentacles of Inspector Loup in her infancy, as has been seen, and from that moment had become the creature of his imperial will,—had, in fact, finally become one of the myriad infinitesimal tentacles herself, subservient to the master-mind. Whatever scruples she had imbibed from the society of the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers had been dissipated by the Jesuit sisters of Le Bon Pasteur. In the select circle of the vagabonds of the Porte de Charenton and robbers of the wood of Vincennes the police agent was execrated, and the secret informer, or spy, was deemed the most despicable of human creatures and worthy only of a violent death; whereas the good Mother Superieure of Le Bon Pasteur encouraged the tale-bearer and rewarded the informer with her favor and the assurance of the Divine blessing. Even the good Sister Agnes—now already a kind of shadowy memory—had taught the waif that spying out and reporting to the constituted authorities was commendable and honorable.

And to do Mlle. Fouchette full justice she so profited by these religious teachings that she was enabled to impart valuable inside information to Inspector Loup's branch of the government concerning the royalist plottings at Le Bon Pasteur. The importance of these revelations Mlle. Fouchette herself did not understand, but that it was of great value to the ministry—as possibly corroborating other facts of a similar nature in their possession—was evidenced by the transfer of Mlle. Fouchette's name to a special list of secret agents at the Ministry, with liberty to make special reports over the head of Monsieur l'Inspecteur himself.

From that moment the latter official watched Mlle. Fouchette with a vigilant eye; for under the spy system agents were employed to watch and report the actions of other agents. This held good from the top of the Secret Service down,—reminding one of the vermin of Hudibras that—

"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 Prefecture had latterly betrayed a laxity of interest that invited official attention, if they did not call down upon her the official censure.

The girl was conscious of this. Half sullen, half defiant, she was struggling under the weight of the new views of life recently acquired. Like the rest of the intelligent world, whose wisdom chiefly consists in unlearning what it has already learned, Mlle. Fouchette was somewhat confused at the rapidity with which old ideas went to pieces and new ideas crowded upon her mind.

Because—well, because of Jean Marot.

A single look from Inspector Loup before Jean would terrify her,—a word would crush her.

She must have time.

And why did Inspector Loup come there in person as errand-boy unless for another purpose? She thought of the secret agents who usually accompanied Inspector Loup. She knew that at this moment they were spread out below like the videttes of an army. They were down in the Rue St. Jacques in their usual function of Inspector Loup's eyes that saw everything and Inspector Loup's ears that heard everything.

This visit to Jean was a mere pretext that covered something more important. Was it concerning Jean? Or, was it her? Perhaps Monsieur l'Inspecteur wanted her,—a species of flattery which would have been incense to her a month ago, and was now a terror.

It was only a few days since she had earned fifty francs and the compliments of Inspector Loup. It was true, Monsieur de Beauchamp had got away to Brussels, the centre of the Orleans conspiracy.

He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicated the change of policy as to the well-known and openly tolerated machinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orleanists in Paris and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.

Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case—he was such a handsome and such an agreeable gentleman—and had given him the straight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this good action, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought of Inspector Loup. She was only a poor petite moucharde,—a word from him—nay, a nod, a significant wink—would deprive her of the sunshine that ripens the grapes of France.

When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took the key of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lock was familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling the door shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again when she chose to come out.

She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound of Monsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her,—she knew it. She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watch and chain episode reassured her but little,—beyond the assurance that Jean was in no immediate danger.

She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking to have some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. The wall was very thick and there was ample space behind her, but this space 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 so suddenly that she lost her balance.

As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectly still for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she had made no noise.

"Dear me! but this is very curious," she murmured, feeling the walls on all sides.

She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left,—she could feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key.

All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all about Jean,—even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselessly and opened the door,—a little at first, then more boldly.

She heard nothing. She saw nothing. Whatever the place it was as black as pitch.

She now recalled the mysterious goings and comings of the friends of Monsieur de Beauchamp,—the disappearance of half a dozen at a time,—the peculiar noises heard from her side of the closet.

"Truly, this is the back shop of Monsieur de Beauchamp," said she, as she 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 could scarcely raise one end of it.

She groped along the wall, where similar boxes were piled up, and began to wonder what on earth Monsieur de Beauchamp had stored there in 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 her excitement she stumbled against it.

The door closed with a snap.

Mlle. Fouchette was not afraid of being alone in the dark, yet she trembled 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 key on the inside and with Jean Marot on the outside. And she trembled more than ever.

What would Jean think of her?

Of course, she knew he would be likely to force the closet door; but when he had found her missing,—what then? Would he be angry? Would he not suspect some trick? Would he persevere till he found her?

It was all about Jean,—of herself she scarcely thought, only so far as the effect might come through him. All at once she felt rather than heard 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 unresponsive stone with her thin little shoes,—her blows gave out no sound. If she only had something to knock with——

She fumbled blindly in the darkness among the boxes. Perhaps—yes, here was one open, and—

"Voila!"

She laid her hand on a heavy, cylindrical substance like a piece of iron gas-pipe, only—funny, but it was packed in something like sawdust.

She tapped smartly on the wall with it—once, twice, thrice—at regular intervals, then listened.

The two similar raps from the other side showed that she was both heard and understood.

"He has found it. Ah! here he is!"

And with her last exclamation Jean appeared, candle in hand, peering into the room and at Mlle. Fouchette in the dazed way more characteristic of the somnambulist than of one awake and in the full possession of his senses.

"Mon Dieu! mon enfant, what have we here?" he ejaculated as soon as he recovered 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 end triumphantly exhibiting the bit of iron pipe with which she had opened communication.

His face suddenly froze with horror!

"Give it to me!"

He snatched it from her hand excitedly and held it an instant apart from his candle.

"A thousand thunders!" he gasped, at the same time handling the thing gingerly 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 in contact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this as if she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quite feminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions.

"Where did you get this, petite?" he asked. "It is death,—a horrible death!"

She pointed to the boxes, unable to speak.

"Dynamite bombs! cartridges! powder and ball!" he declared, as he casually 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 the wall with that—that——"

She shivered like a leaf.

"You are right," said he. "The candle is dangerous. I will get my bicycle-lamp and we will investigate this mystery."

"It is no longer a mystery," she replied,—"not to me. It is the hand of the Duke."

"It is very singular," he muttered. "Very curious."

"It is a fairy romance," said she, as they passed back through the narrow opening to Jean's appartement.

"There is no fairy story about that dynamite,—that, at least, is both practical and modern."

"Oh! I mean this secret passage and all that——"

"Yes; but don't you know, mon enfant, that I first thought it led to—to your——"

"For shame! Monsieur Jean!"

"I don't know," said he, shaking his head smilingly. "Monsieur de Beauchamp was a very handsome man."

"Yes, besides being an ardent servant of the Duc d'Orleans and an artist collector of pictures and bric-a-brac——"

"Especially 'bric-a-brac,'" said Jean, with sarcasm.

"Anyhow, mon ami, you now know——"

"That I was unjust to you, yes; pardon me! You could know very little of Beauchamp, since he was able to collect all of this bric-a-brac under your nose."

Mlle. Fouchette reddened, thinking, nervously, of what Inspector Loup would say on that head. Jean saw this color and changed the conversation.

"Come, now, let us go and explore Monsieur de Beauchamp's articles of vertu."

With the bicycle bull's-eye light in hand he led the way back through the secret passage, followed closely by the young girl.

"Monsieur de Beauchamp wasn't the mighty Caesar in one thing," said Jean, 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 and compound assassination were stored. Entering, they inadvertently closed the door behind them.

"Dame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette. "The key, monsieur! the key!"

"Que diable!"

"How provoking!"

"But we have the dynamite——"

"Ah, ca!"

But somehow Mlle. Fouchette was not as badly frightened at the situation as one might have the right to expect. She even laughed gayly at their mutual imprisonment.

"Dynamite!" muttered Jean,—"a throne founded upon dynamite would crumble quickly——"

"Yes, and by dynamite," said she.

"Monsieur de Beauchamp was——"

"Is a royalist leader——"

"An assassin!"

"A tool of the Duc d'Orleans."

"The Duke would never stoop to wholesale murder! Never!"

"It is the way of kings, n'est-ce pas? to shelter themselves from responsibility 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 a door that in the candle-light had easily escaped their observation. It was at the opposite side of the room from which they had entered. It was 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 a porte-cochere."

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 examination showed at once that this last had not been used for a long time. To the left, however, a mere slit in the stone was seen to involve a steep stair of very much worn steps. Opposite the entrance to this stairway was a shallow niche in the wall, in which were the remains of burned candles.

"Cat stairs," said Mlle. Fouchette.

"And the cats have used it a good deal of late, I should judge," he observed, 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 securely fastened 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,—a building that must open on some other street than the Rue St. Jacques."

In the mean time Jean had finally unfastened and forced the trap. In another moment he had drawn her through the opening and they stood under a cloudless sky.

"Ah!" she murmured.

"We are free, at least, mon enfant."

She was not thinking of that. The silence, the glorious vault of stars, the——

"S-sh!"

"It's the bell of Sainte Genevieve," he whispered, crossing himself involuntarily.

"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 which came, muffled and sullen, from the old square belfry beyond the Pantheon.

The roofs of this old quarter presented a curious conglomeration of the architectural monstrosities of seven centuries. It was a fantastic tumult of irregular shapes that only took the semblance of human design upon being considered in detail. As a whole they seemed the result of a great upheaval of nature—the work of some powerful demon—rather than that of human architectural conception. These confused and frightful shapes stretched from street to street,—stiff steeps of tile and moss-covered slate, massive chimneys and blackened chimney-pots, great dormer-windows and rows of mere slits and holes of glass betraying the existence of humanity within, walls and copings of rusty stone running this way and that and stopping abruptly, mysterious squares of even blackness representing courts and breathing-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 entrancing grandeur of celestial beauty, rose the dome of the Pantheon,—so close, indeed, and so grandly great and beautiful in contrast with all the 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 roofs of 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 on the trail he examined the stone attentively, she meanwhile shading the light with the folds of her dress. It was comparatively easy to note the recent wear of feet in the time-accumulation of rust and dirt and dry moss of these old stones. In a few moments he discovered that the tracks turned off between two high-pitched roofs towards the Pantheon. As from one of these slopes grinned a double row of dormer-windows, it seemed incredible that any considerable number of prowlers might long escape observation.

"But they may be vacant," said the girl, when Jean had suggested the contingency.

"That is quite true."

So they stealthily crept rather than walked on, the end of the gutter abutting on another court. The depression was marked here by virgin moss.

"It is very extraordinary," growled Jean, entirely at a loss to account for the abrupt close of the trail. There was no way out of this 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 the corrugated tiling; for the roof had a pitch of fifty degrees, and the casement was half-way up the slope.

"It must be so," he said. "Wait!"

With the lantern concealed beneath his coat he scrambled noiselessly up and examined the window. It was not fastened. Whoever had passed here 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,—which folded from within, like all French windows—and entered, leaving Mlle. Fouchette to follow at will. That damsel's catlike nature made a roof 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 exclamation burst from them simultaneously.

For a minute they stood, half breathless, looking about them.

They seemed to be in an empty room embracing the entire unfinished garret of a house, gable to gable. The space was all roof and floor,—that is, the roof rose abruptly from the floor on two sides to the comb above.

As the eye became accustomed to the place, it first took in the small square boxes, some of which had evidently been unpacked or prepared for that process, the litter being scattered about the floor,—the boxes similar to those stored in the dark room below. There were roughly constructed platforms beneath all of the windows, with steps leading up to the same. Beneath these platforms and along the whole of one side of the room were wooden arm-racks glistening with arms of the latest model. Belts, cartridge-boxes, bayonets, swords, an immense assortment of military paraphernalia, lay piled on the floor at one end of the room.

At the opposite end was mounted on a swivel a one-pound Maxim rapid-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 Pantheon might have been found numerous similar places, requiring only a thrust to become loopholes for prostrate riflemen.

The most cursory glance from the windows above showed that these commanded the Place du Pantheon and Rue Soufflot,—the scene of bloody street battles of every revolutionary epoch.

Fifty active men from this vantage could have rendered either street or barricade untenable, or as support to a barricade in the Place du Pantheon have made such a barricade impregnable to exposed troops.

"It is admirable!" cried Jean, lost in contemplation of the strategic importance of the position.

"It is wonderful, but——"

"Artillery? Yes," he interrupted, anticipating her reasoning; "but artillery could not be elevated to command this place from the street, and as for Mont Valerien——"

"The Pantheon——"

"Yes,—exactly,—they would never risk the Pantheon. Even the Prussians spared that."

"Oh, Monsieur Jean, see!"

She had discovered a white silk flag embroidered with the lilies of France.

"The wretches! They would restore the hated emblem of the Louis! This is 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'Orleans should know that the people of France will never 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. Recall the language of Monsieur de Beauchamp,—that it is necessary to make use of everybody and everything going the way of the king,—tending to re-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 gable opposite the Maxim gun. It was bolted and heavily barred, but these fastenings were easily removed.

As anticipated, this door led to a passage and to stairs which, in turn, led down to the street. They closed the door with as little noise 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 above their heads. But the slightest noise might arouse these people, and in such a case the Frenchman is apt to shoot first and make inquiries afterwards. However, once in the street, they could go around to their own rooms without trouble. It was worth the risk.

The stairs, fortunately, had a strip of carpeting, so they soon found themselves safely at the street door. To quietly open this was but the work 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 agents officially outside of the Prefecture; "it is La Savatiere!"

Mlle. Fouchette trembled a little.

"And Monsieur Marot! Why, this is an unexpected pleasure," continued the police official.

"Then the pleasure is all on one side," promptly responded Jean, who was disgusted beyond measure.

Inspector Loup regarded the pair with his fishy eyes half closed. For once in his life he was nonplussed. Nay, if anything could be said to be surprising to Inspector Loup, this meeting was unexpected and surprising. But he was too clever a player to needlessly expose the weakness 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 matter merely 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 finally remarked.

"Well, monsieur," retorted the young man, "is there any law against that?"

"Where's the lantern?"

"Here," said Jean, turning the bull's-eye on the face of the inspector.

"Bicycle. Is your wheel above, monsieur?" This ironically.

"Not exactly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

"Now, Monsieur Jean," put in Mlle. Fouchette, "if Monsieur l'Inspecteur has no further questions to ask——"

"Not so fast, mademoiselle," sharply interrupted the officer. "Just wait a bit; for, while I do not claim that roof-walking at midnight is unpardonable in cats and lovers, it is especially forbidden to enter other 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 at random, it was morally certain that he would smoke them out.

"And two persons armed with a dark-lantern, coming out of a house not their own, at this time of night," continued the inspector, "are under legitimate 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 girl himself, 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 souriciere. If the inspector knew what was above, he would not have left the entrances and exits unguarded. To be absolutely sure of this, she waited until they had passed the Rue St. Jacques.

"Now is my opportunity to play quits," she said to herself, and her face 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 for those in the rear to stop.

They soon stood in the dark entrance of a wine-shop, the inspector of the secret police and his petite moucharde, both as sharp and hard as flint.

"Now, out with it, you little vixen!" he commanded, assuming his brutal side. "Let us have no trifling. You know me!"

"And you know me, monsieur!" she retorted, with the first show of anger in her voice.

"Speak!"

"I said I had important information," she began, calmly. But it was with 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 present dilemma. 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 coldly replied.

"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 master of the Ministry and——"

"Bah!" he ejaculated, contemptuously. He was master of them already.

"And the mere publicity of it would send your name throughout the civilized world in a day!"

"Speak up, then; don't be afraid——"

"It is such that, no matter what you may do in the future, nothing would give you greater reputation."

"But, ma fillette,"—it was the utmost expression of his official confidence,—"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 bargaining manner and again flying into a passion. "You'll furnish the information you're paid to furnish, and without any 'question' or 'if,' or I'll put you behind the bars. Yes, sacre bleu! on a diet of bread 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 then I will furnish it to the Ministry, as I'm specially instructed in such cases 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 let me——"

"For a substantial favor in return!"

"Precisely."

"Ugh! of course!"

"Of course, monsieur,—partly. Partly because you have been kind to me, 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 not a question of money. If I wanted money I could get it at the Ministry,—yes, thousands of francs!"

"Perhaps you overrate your find, mademoiselle," he suggested, but with unconcealed interest.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed.

"It ought to be very important indeed," she continued, "equally important 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 her story was probably all a myth. He suddenly turned the lantern from under his cloak upon her upturned face, and he saw that which thrilled him, but which he could not understand.

It was the first time within Inspector Loup's experience that he had found any one wanting to quit—actually refusing good money to quit—the Secret System, having once enjoyed its delightful atmosphere.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"

But he was so much involved in his mental struggle with this new phase of detective life that he did not answer. He had figured it out.

"So! I think I understand now. But why quit? You have struck something better; but, surely, mademoiselle, one can be in love and yet do one's duty to the State."

"Monsieur!"

"Oh, well; you can resign, can't you? Nobody hinders you." And be a fool! was in Monsieur l'Inspecteur's tone.

"Yes; but that is not all, monsieur. I want it with your free consent and written quittance,—and more, your word of honor that I will never be molested by you or your agents,—that I will be as if I had never been!"

"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 hand for 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 of fatherly advice before I cease to know you. Keep that gay young lover of yours out of mischief; he will never again get off as easily as he did the other day."

"Thanks, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" said Mlle. Fouchette, very glad indeed 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 leave two in the Rue St. Jacques where we shall enter,—until you see for yourself,—the coast is clear."

"Good!" said he, and he gave the necessary orders.

Inspector Loup issued from the Rue Soufflot entrance an hour later with a look of keen satisfaction.

Between the royalists on the one hand, and the republicans on the other, there were gigantic possibilities for an official of Inspector Loup'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 to secretly transfer an envelope to the hand of Mlle. Fouchette. For the chief of the Secret System was too clever not to see the shoe that pinched Mlle. Fouchette's toes, and, while despising her weakness, was loyal to his obligation.

As soon as Mlle. Fouchette had bidden Jean good-night and found herself in her own room, she took this envelope from her pocket and drew near the lamp.

It was marked "To be opened to-morrow."

She felt it nervously. It crackled. She squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger. She held it between her eyes and the light. In vain the effort to pierce its secrets.

The old tower clock behind the Pantheon 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 the paper in her hand. Her little head was so dizzy—really—she could scarcely bring it to bear upon anything.

Except one thing,—that this unexpected wealth stood between her and what an honest young woman dreads most in this world!

The tears slowly trickled down the pale cheeks,—tears for which it is to be feared only the angels in heaven gave Mlle. Fouchette due credit.

Suddenly she started up in alarm. But it was only some belated lodger, staggering on the stairs. She examined the lock on her door and resolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of her bed.

The fear which accompanies possession was new to her.

Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out the bank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everything printed on it, and kissed it again and again.

One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she could tell 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 already more than she had ever possessed at once in her life.

Freedom and fortune!

She picked up the envelope which had been hastily discarded for the fortune it had contained.

Hold! here was something more! She saw that it was her quittance,—her freedom! Her face, already happy and smiling, became joyous.

It was merely a lead-pencil scrawl on a leaf from Inspector Loup's note-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! Mere 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, my half-brother! I shall surely die!"

With the paper crumpled in her folded hands she sank to her knees beside the big chair and bowed her head. Her heart was full to bursting, but in her deep perplexity she could only murmur, "What shall I do? what shall I do?"

* * * * *

Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hear the clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rather metallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He had never heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle. Fouchette:

"Il est une rue a Paris, Ou 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 get arrested, too, hein?"

The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a small blonde head and a laughing face appeared.

"Not up yet? For shame, monsieur!"

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock, lazybones."

"Ten——"

"Yes. Aren't you hungry?"

"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.

"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.

"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was dressing,—he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,—"the little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."

He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up, but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning wrapper.

His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance, falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.

"My faith! you are quite—but, say, little one, what's up?"

"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours, Monsieur Lazybones."

"But——"

"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk bill,—deux francs cinquante, and gave that epiciere a piece of my mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs a la coque; for, while the eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to have it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"

Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra, which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon ami,—only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."

It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their joint household. He paid about as much attention as usual,—which was none at all,—his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuine comfort of the place.

"And the flowers, petite——"

"Of course," she hastily interrupted, "I pay for the flowers."

"No! no!" he explained. "I don't mean that! Is it your birthday, or——"

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "that is it, Monsieur Jean. I was born this morning!"

He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had not caught her real meaning.

"From the marguerites——"

"Ah, ca! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't they sweet? How I love the flowers!"

"But I never saw such a remarkable effect, somehow. They are only flowers, and——"

"'Only flowers'! Say, now!"

"Still, it is curious," he added, resuming his coffee and rolls, as if the subject were not worth an argument or was too intangible to grasp. He could not account for the change in Mlle. Fouchette.

And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he was he would not have been able to understand the divine process by which human happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance.

"Mon ami," said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admiration gave her, "do you, then, forget what we have to do to-day?"

"Lerouge? Yes,—that's so,—at once!"

Immediately after breakfast Jean sat down and wrote a friendly, frank letter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger and expressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend.

"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your political opinions and——"

"Oh!"

"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with these conspirators."

"But, Fouchette——"

"Last night's discoveries ought to satisfy any reasonable being."

"True enough, petite."

"Then why not say so to——"

"Not yet,—I prefer acts rather than words,—but in good time——"

It is more difficult for a man to bring himself to the acknowledgment of political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law.

In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed the breakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace.

"It is very singular," he repeated to himself after she had departed upon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl—really, I don't know just what to think of her."

So he ceased to think of her at all, which was, perhaps, after all, the easiest way out of the mental dilemma.

The fact was that Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming necessary to him.

With a light heart and eager step she tripped down the Boulevard St. Michel towards the ancient Isle de la Cite. On the bridge she saw the dark shadow of the Prefecture loom up ahead of her, and her face, already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as she thought of her moral freedom.

The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-passers, but this did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching a recognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette.

The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric shock. She stopped short,—so suddenly that those who immediately followed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavily veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.

"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,—a voice which startled those who dodged the physical shock,—and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She loves!"

It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Prefecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame.

Ah, ca!

And after years of servitude,—from childhood,—some of it a servitude of the most despicable nature,—she had at last struck off the shackles!

No,—she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom she feared and hated for one she loved—adored!

Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and boldly past the very front door of the Prefecture,—"like any other lady," she would have said.

An agent of the Prefecture, who knew her from having worked with her, happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.

"Something is in the wind," said he.

But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter the Prefecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.

Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring to accost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence.

It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in the dance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yards before a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with an oath.

"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems to be a feminine chase." And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt.

Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Prefecture and made straight for the Hotel Dieu.

Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidently growing more and more agitated.

And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from the Prefecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossing the broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three going the same way would not have attracted attention.

Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a letter from her bosom.

"That letter! Sacre! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled woman, aloud.

"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.

Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.

"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.

The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.

"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"

"Go! I must have that letter!"

She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye ablaze with wrath.

"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Prefecture!"

"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to free herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."

"Your best friend, too!"

"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.

"Oh, no; not quite,—only an agent from the Prefecture, my bird."

"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her! D'you hear that? A mort! The miserable moucharde!"

"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me, deary. Come!"

"I tell you I'll kill her!"

"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp, now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the streets! Understand?"

Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene, passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Prefecture.



CHAPTER XX

A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to all appearances the latter had ignored it and its author.

Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils; but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and other dire uncertainties.

As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritability on their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And as doting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon become fixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. Fouchette naturally became the servant of the somewhat masterful Jean Marot.

She cheerfully accepted these exactions of his variable temper along with the responsibility for the economical administration of his domestic affairs.

But even the brightest and most willing of servants cannot always anticipate what is in the master's mind; so Jean had come to giving orders to Mlle. Fouchette. He had not yet beaten her, but the careless observer might have ventured the opinion that this would come in time.

It is the character of Frenchmen to beat women,—to stab them in the back one day when they are bored with them. The Paris press furnishes daily examples of this sort of chivalry. As a rule, the life of wife or mistress in France is a condition little short of slavery.

The mere arrangement of words is unimportant to the woman who anticipates blows, and who, doubtless, after the fierce fashion of the Latins, would love more intensely when these blows fell thickest and heaviest. As for being ordered about and scolded, it was a recognition of his dependence upon her.

Over and above all other considerations was Jean's future happiness. In this, at least, they were harmonious. For Jean himself was also looking solely to that end.

Since that memorable night when one brief pencilled sentence from Inspector Loup had bestowed upon her a new birth she found double reason for every sacrifice. She not only trampled her love underfoot with new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards the reconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge.

Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain the young man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescent she ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported to Jean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom she had formerly expressed only dislike.

Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct,—a woman is never bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. She never asked to see Lerouge,—never sent in her name to him,—but merely inquired, saying she was sent by one of his old friends. As she had intended, the name of this friend, Jean Marot, had been finally carried to Henri Lerouge.

One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervous that it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of one of the great stone columns. She had watched for this opportunity for days; yet when it suddenly presented itself she could only hide, trembling, and permit the girl to pass without a word.

"If I could only touch her!—feel her pretty fingers in my hand! Ah! but can I ever bring myself to that without betrayal? They would be so happy! and I,—why should I not be happy also? I love him,—I love her,—and if they love each other,—she can help it no more than he,—it would be impossible!"

Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remy disappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herself over and over again, as if the resolution she had taken required constant bracing and strengthening.

And it did require it.

For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut out for herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist.

Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as is seen,—it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owed her reputation—of the feline claws and ready boot-heel—had vanished and left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally she had not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herself on the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soul were absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in her self-abasement.

Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther,—would have deliberately and gladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar of her affections. She had no moral scruples, being only a poor little heathen among the heathen.

Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jean had not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended by secretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superior to other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to the image in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her complete devotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal and prostrated herself more humbly.