Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar.

As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he really deserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and a common type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fell swoop, constructed a calendar to suit themselves, and worshipped Reason in Notre Dame represented by a ballet dancer. In other words, he was an egoist of the egoists of earth.

He was, in fact, so unbearably a bear in his treatment of little Fouchette that only the most extraordinary circumstances would seem to excuse him.

And the circumstances were quite extraordinary. Jean was suffering from personal notoriety. Unseen hands were tossing him about and pulling him to pieces. Unknown purposes held him as in a vice.

Within the last two weeks his mail had grown from two to some twenty letters a day,—most of which letters were not only of a strongly incendiary nature, but expressed a wholly false conception of his political position and desires. He was being inundated by indiscriminate praise and abuse. There were reams of well-meant advice and quires of threats of violence.

Among these letters had been some enclosing money and drafts to a considerable amount,—to be used in a way which was plainly apparent. From a distinguished royalist he had received in a single cover the sum of ten thousand francs "for the cause." From another had come five thousand francs for his "personal use." Various smaller sums aggregated not less than ten thousand francs more, most of which was to be expended at discretion in the restoration of a "good" and "stable" and "respectable" government to unhappy France. Besides cash were drafts and promises,—the latter reaching unmeasured sums. And interspersed with all these were strong hints of political preferment that would have turned almost any youthful head less obstinate than that which ornamented the broad shoulders of Jean Marot.

At first Jean was amused, then he was astonished. Finally he became indignant and angry to the bursting-point.

It was several days before he could adequately comprehend what had provoked this furious storm, with its shower of money and warning flashes of wrath and rumblings of violence. Then it became clear that he was being made the political tool of the reactionary combination then laying the axe at the root of the republican tree. The Orleanists, Bonapartists, Anti-Semites, and their allies were quick to see the value of a popular leader in the most turbulent and unmanageable quarter of Paris. The Quartier Latin was second only to Montmartre as a propagating bed for revolution; the fiery youth of the great schools were quite as important as the butchers of La Villette.

The conclusions of the young leader were materially assisted and hastened by the flattering attention with which he was received by the young men wearing royalist badges, and by the black looks from the more timid republicans. He thereupon avoided the streets of the quarter, and devoted his time to answering such letters as bore signature and address. He sought to disabuse the public mind, so far as the writers were concerned, by declaring his adherence to the republic, and by returning the money so far as possible.

Jean Marot had now for the first time, with many others, turned his attention to the revelations in the Dreyfus case as appeared in the Figaro, and saw with amazement the use being made of a wholly fictitious crisis to destroy French liberty. He was appalled at these disclosures. Not that they demonstrated the innocence of a condemned man, but because they showed the utter absence of conscience on the part of his accusers and the criminal ignorance of the military leaders on whom France relied in the hour of public danger. For the first time he saw, what the whole civilized world outside of France had seen with surprise and indignation, that the conviction of Captain Dreyfus rested upon the testimony of a staff-officer of noble blood who lived openly and shamelessly on the immoral earnings of his mistress, and who was the self-acknowledged agent of a maison de toleration on commission. In the person of this distinguished member of the "condotteri" was centred the so-called "honor of the army." As for the so-called "evidence," no police judge of England or America would have given a man five days on it.

Matters were at this stage when one morning about a fortnight since the day Mlle. Fouchette had changed masters they reached the bursting-point. Jean suddenly jumped from his seat where he had been looking over his mail and broke into a torrent of invective.

"Dame!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coming in from the kitchen in the act of manipulating a plate with a towel,—"surely, Monsieur Jean, it can't be as bad as that!"

"Mille tonnerres!" cried Jean, kicking the chair viciously,—"it's worse!"

"Worse?"

"Fouchette, you're a fool!"

Mlle. Fouchette kicked the door till it rattled. She also used oaths, rare for her.

"Stop!" he roared. "What in the devil's name are you doing that for? Stop!"

"Why not? I don't want to be a fool. I want to do just as you do, monsieur!"

"Oh, yes! it is funny; but suppose Inspector Loup wanted you for a spy——"

The plate slipped to the floor with a loud crash.

"There!" he exclaimed. And seeing how confused she got,—"Never mind, Fouchette. Come here! Look at that!"

Inspector Loup had politely requested Monsieur Marot to furnish privately any information in connection with the recent discoveries at his appartement which might be useful to the government,—especially in the nature of correspondence, etc.

As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Telegraphes and had not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, going and coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who never use the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the Secret System, prefer direct communication.

"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused the letter.

"It is damnable!" said Jean.

"Still, it is his business to know."

"It is a miserable business,—a dishonorable business! And Monsieur l'Inspecteur will follow his dirty trade without any help from me!"

"Very surely!" said Mlle. Fouchette, emphatically.

"I've had enough of politics."

"Good!" cried she, gleefully.

"But, I'd like to punch the fellow who wrote this," he muttered, tearing an insulting letter into little bits and throwing them on the floor.

She laughed. "But that is politics," she remarked.

"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"

"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning smile,—"why not others?"

"I—I—mille diables!"

"What! Another?"

"Worse!"

He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden passion.

"It is very provoking, but——"

"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.

She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,—

"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter and protection."

"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.

"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.

"Ah! mon Dieu!"

She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.

"He cannot know!—he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon ami!"

"Well!" sighed the young man,—"let us see,—a telegram? I hadn't noticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father can write his son."

He read in silence, then passed it to her with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Monsieur de Beauchamp!" she exclaimed.

"Yes."

"'Come to Brussels at once.'"

"It is the Duc d'Orleans."

"Bah!"

"He knows, then, that I am in possession."

"Yes,—certainly."

"Probably wants me to take charge of his guns——"

"And dynamite bombs——"

"The wretches!"

"You can tell him you have turned them over to Inspector Loup."

"I will, pardieu!"

He was inspecting the superscription of the next envelope.

"Something familiar about that. Ah! its from Lerouge!"

"Lerouge!"

"Very good, very good! Look!"

Jean jumped up excitedly,—this time with evident pleasure.

"Coming here! and to-night! Good!"

"Oh! I'm so glad, mon ami!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "And, see! 'toi!'—he calls you 'thee;' he is not angry!"

The note from Lerouge was simply a line, as if in answer to something of the day.

"Merci,—je serai chez toi ce soir."

"'Toi,'—it is good!" said the girl.

"Yes, it looks fair. And Henri always had the way of getting a world of meaning in a few words."

"It is as if there had occurred nothing."

"Yes,—to-night,—and we must prepare him a welcome of some kind. I will write him as to the hour. Let us say a supper, eh, Fouchette?"

"A supper? and here? to-night?"

Mlle. Fouchette recoiled with dismay written in every line of her countenance.

"I don't see anything so strange or horrible about that," said Jean. "I did not propose to serve you for supper."

"N-no; only——"

"Well?"

Mlle. Fouchette was greatly agitated. He looked at her curiously. Monsieur Lerouge coming to see him and coming to supper—where she must be present—were widely different propositions according to Mlle. Fouchette; for she had hailed the first with delight and the second in utter confusion.

"Fouchette, why don't you say at once that you don't want to do it!" he brutally added.

"You do not understand. Would it be well for—for you, mon ami? It is not for myself. He probably does not know me."

"What if he does? It strikes me that you are growing mighty nice of late. I don't see what Lerouge has to do with you,—and you have pretended——"

"Pretended? Oh, monsieur! I beg——"

"Very well," he interrupted. "We can go out to a restaurant, I suppose, since you don't seem to want to take that trouble for me."

"Oh, monsieur!" she protested, earnestly, "it is not that; I would be glad, only—if it were not Lerouge."

"And why not Lerouge, pray?"

"But, mon ami, would he not tell his sister that——"

"Nonsense!"

"I know——" she hesitated.

"Pouf! Lerouge will not know you. And what if he did recognize the—the——"

"Savatiere——"

"Yes; what, then? But, say! Fouchette, you shall wear that pretty bonne costume I got you. Hein?"

"But, mon ami,—mon cher ami! I'd rather not do it," she faltered. "If Mademoiselle Remy should hear of it——"

"Bah! I know Lerouge. He'd think you my servant, my model. And have you not your own private establishment to retire to in case—really, you must!"

"W-well, be it so, Monsieur Jean; but if harm comes of it——"

"It will be my fault, not yours. It goes!"

Thus Jean, having reduced the "Savatiere" to the condition of unsalaried servitude, now insisted upon her dressing the part.

He had paid her no empty compliment when he said that she looked her best as a maid. He had fitted her out for an evening at the Bullier for twenty-five francs. In the Quakerish garb of a French bonne she had never looked so demurely sweet in her life. The short skirt showed a pair of small feet and neat round ankles. Her spotless apron accentuated the delicacy of the slender waist. And with a cute white lace cap perched coquettishly over the drooping blonde hair—well, anybody could see that Mlle. Fouchette (become simply Fouchette by this metamorphosis) was really a pretty little woman.

And Jean kissed her on both cheeks and laughed at her because they reddened, and swore she was the sweetest little "bonne a toute faire" in all the world.

No doubt Marie Antoinette and her court ladies looked most charming when they played peasant at Petit Trianon; for it is a curious fact that many women show to better physical advantage in the simple costume of a neat servant than in the silks and diamonds of the mistress.

As for Fouchette, she was truly artistic, and she knew it. The knowledge that Jean comprehended this and admired her caused her eyes to shine and her blood to circulate more quickly. And a woman would be more than mortal who is not to be consoled by the consciousness of a successful toilet.

Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs and broken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothing whether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now,—ah! it was a cruel test of her.

True, she must meet Lerouge some time. Oh! surely. She must see Mlle. Remy, too,—she must look into his sombre eyes,—feel the gentle touch of her hands! Often,—yes; often!

For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might—why not? She would become their domestic, could she not?

Only, to meet Lerouge here,—in this way!

It was a bitter struggle, but love conquered.

Nevertheless, she felt that she required all of her natural courage, all the cleverness learned of rogues and the stoicism engrafted by suffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow the chosen path to the end.

"How charming you look, Fouchette!" he exclaimed, when she appeared in the evening.

"Thanks, monsieur."

She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face was wreathed in smiles.

"But, I say, mon enfant, you are really pretty."

"Ah, ca!"

She was blushing,—painfully, because she knew that she was blushing. He put his arm about her waist and attempted to kiss her.

"No, no, no!" she cried, with an air of vexation,—"go away!"

"But you are really artistic, Fouchette. I must have a sitting of you in that costume."

He had made several sketches of her head, she serving as a model for Mlle. Remy. Only, he filled them out to suit his ideal. Mlle. Fouchette saw this; yet she was always pleased to pose for him.

"That is, if you are good," he added, in his condescending way.

"Have no fear,—I'll be good."

"Une bonne bonne, say."

"Bon-bon? Va!"

"And can sit still long enough."

"There! I can't sit still now, monsieur. The dinner,—it is nearly time."

She had set out the table with the best their mutual resources afforded. She had run up and down the street after whatever seemed necessary earlier in the day. Now that final arrangement had come, nothing seemed quite satisfactory. She changed this, replaced that with something else, ran backward a moment to take in the ensemble, then changed things back again. She had the exquisite French perception of the incongruous in form and color. Between times she was diving in and out of the little kitchen, where the soup was simmering and where a chicken from the nearest rotisserie was being thoroughly warmed up. And in her lively comings and goings she wore a bright smile and kept up the incessant purr, purr, purr of a vivacious tongue.

"And you must have champagne!" said she, reproachfully.

He had come in with the bottles under his arm. "You should have let me purchase it, at least. How much?"

"Ten francs."

"Ten francs! It is frightful! And two for this claret, I'll warrant!"

"More than that, innocent."

"What! more than——"

"Four francs."

She held up her little hands, speechless, being unable to do justice to his extravagance. He laughed.

"It is an important occasion," said he. "But, really, you are simply astonishing, little one."

"La, la, la!"

Jean had an artistic sense, and Mlle. Fouchette now appealed to it. He watched her skipping about the place and tried to reconcile this sweet, bright-eyed, light-hearted creature with the woman he had known as "La Savatiere."

"Que diable! but she is—well, what in the name of all the goddesses has come over the girl, anyhow? It can't be that Lerouge—yet she didn't want to have him see her here."

Conscious of this scrutiny, Fouchette would have been compelled to retreat to the kitchen on some pretext if she had not got this occasional shelter by necessity. She was so happy. Her heart was so light she could not be quite certain if she were really on the earth or not. Never had Jean looked so handsome to her.

"Dame! It is nothing," she said and repeated over and over to herself,—"it is nothing; and yet I am surely the happiest girl in the world. Oh, when he looks at me with his beautiful eyes like that I feel as if I could fly! Mon Dieu! but if he touched me now I should faint! I should die!"

A vigorous ring at the door smote her ear. She trembled.

"Well, why don't you go, melon?" He spoke with a sharpness that fell on her like a blow.

She fumbled nervously at her apron-strings.

"Go as you are, stupid!"

"Yes, monsieur."

If her heart had not already fallen suddenly to zero, it would have dropped there when she opened the vestibule door.

The elderly image of Jean Marot stood before her. Somewhat stouter of figure and broader of feature, with full grayish beard and moustache that concealed the outlines of the lower face, but still such a striking likeness of father to son that even one less versed in the human physiognomy than Mlle. Fouchette must have at once recognized Marot pere. The deeply recessed eyes looked darker and seemed to burn more fiercely than Jean's, and more accurately suggested Lerouge. Indeed, to the casual observer the man might have been the father of either of the two young men. In bearing and attire the figure was that of the prosperous French manufacturer. His voice was coldly harsh and imperious.

"So! mademoiselle!"

He paused in the vestibule and gazed searchingly at the trembling little woman with a fierce glare that made her feel as if she were being shrivelled up where she stood.

"So! May I inquire whether I am on the threshold of Monsieur Jean Marot's appartement or that of his—his——"

He was evidently making an effort to preserve his calmness, but the words seemed to choke him.

The implication, though not at once fully understood by Mlle. Fouchette, had the effect of rousing her powers of resistance.

"It is Monsieur Marot's, monsieur," she replied, with dignity.

"And you are——"

"His servant, monsieur."

"Oh! So!"

"And you, monsieur——"

"I am his father, mademoiselle."

"Ah!" He need not have told her that.

At this instant the inner door was thrown wide open, and Jean, who had recognized his father's voice with consternation, was in the opening.

Father and son stood thus confronting each other for some seconds, mute,—the father sternly and with unrelenting eye, the son with a pride sustained by obstinacy and bitterness. The sting of his father's letter was fresh, and he nerved himself for further insults. Nor had he to wait long, for his father advanced upon him as he retired into the room, with a growing menace in his tone at every successive step.

"So! Here you are, you—you——"

"Father!"

The old man had excitedly raised his hand as if to strike his son without further words, but he found Mlle. Fouchette between them.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now,—not now!"

The elder Marot glanced at her as if she were some sort of vermin. This at first, then he hesitated before kicking her out of the way.

"Ah, messieurs! is it the way to reconciliation and love to go at it in hot blood and hard words? Take a little time,—there is plenty and to spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will you not? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? And remember, he is your father, monsieur. Remember that before you speak. It is easy to say hard words, but the cure is slow and difficult, messieurs. Why not deliberate and reason without anger?"

As she talked she placed chairs, towards one of which she gently urged Marot senior. Then she insisted upon taking his hat. A man with his hat off is not so easily roused to anger as he is with it on, nor can one maintain his resentment at the highest pitch while sitting down. There was this much gained by Mlle. Fouchette's diplomacy.

But the first glance about the room restored the father's belligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, the wine——

"I am honored, monsieur," he said to his son, sarcastically, "though I had no idea that you expected me."

"It is—er—I had a friend——"

"Oh! I know quite well I have no reason to anticipate such a royal welcome. Yet there are three plates——"

"That was for Fouchette," said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "You will be welcome at my humble table, father."

"Fouchette,"—he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making a pretence of arranging the table,—"and so this is Fouchette, eh? And your humble table, eh?"

The irascible old gentleman regarded both of the adjuncts of life de garcon with a bitter smile. Still it was something like a smile, and the girl was quick to take advantage of it.

"Oh, this is a special occasion, monsieur,—a reconciliation dinner."

"A reconciliation dinner, eh?" growled the old man, suspicious of some sly allusion to himself and son. "And will you be good enough to speak for this dummy here and inform me who is to be reconciled and what the devil you've got to do with the operation?"

"To be sure!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, with affected gayety. "Only I must begin at the last first. I'm the next-door neighbor of Monsieur Jean, your son, and I take care of his rooms for him—for a consideration. My appartement is over there, monsieur, if you please. We are poor, but we must eat——"

"And drink champagne," put in the elder Marot, significantly.

"Is not champagne more fitting for the reconciliation of two men who were once friends than would be violent words?" she asked, with spirit.

"Who pays for it? It depends upon who pays for it!" He tried to ward off the conclusion by hurling this at both of them.

Jean reddened. He knew quite well the insinuation. It is not an unusual thing for Frenchmen to live on the product of a woman's shame.

"As if you should ask me if I were a thief, father!" protested the young man, now scarcely able to restrain his tears.

"And as if we had not pinched and saved and economized and all that! And can you look around you and not see that?" She had hard work to smother her indignation.

"Come to the point!" retorted the elder Marot, impatiently. "The woman! Where is the woman?"

Jean reddened more furiously and was more confused than before.

"It can't be this—this"—he regarded the slender, girlish figure contemptuously—"this grisette menagere! You are not such a fool as to——"

"Oh! no, no, no, no!" hastily interrupted Mlle. Fouchette, with great agitation. "Oh, no, monsieur! Think not that! She is an angel! I am nothing to him,—nothing! Only a poor little friend,—a servant, monsieur,—one who wishes him well and would do and give anything to see him happy! Nothing more, monsieur, I assure you! I—mon Dieu! nothing more!"

There was almost a wail in her last note of too much protestation.

Both father and son scrutinized her attentively, while the color came and went in her now downcast face,—the one with a puzzled astonishment, the other with surprised alarm.

And both understood.

Not being himself a lover, the elder Marot divined at once what Jean, with all his opportunities, had till now failed to discover.

Another pull at the bell came like a gift from heaven to momentarily relieve poor little Fouchette of her embarrassment.

Jean started nervously to his feet, in sympathy with her intelligence, but by no means relieved in mind.

"It is Lerouge," he said, desperately. "Attend, Fouchette!"

The father glanced from one to the other quickly, inquiringly.

"Lerouge?"

"Yes, father,—it is he,—the friend—whom we—whom I expect—to whom I owe reparation——"

The two men studied each other in silence for the few seconds that followed, and Jean saw something like aroused curiosity and wonderment in his father's face,—something that had suddenly taken the place of anger.

Mlle. Fouchette had anticipated the coming of Lerouge with quite a different sentiment to that which overpowered Jean. The latter saw in it only the ruin of his most cherished hopes. Fouchette, on the other hand, with the quicker and surer intuition of the woman, believed the time now ripe for the reconciliation of not only Jean and Lerouge, but of father and son. It would be impossible for Jean and his father to quarrel before this third party. Time would be gained. And then, were not the two affairs one? The straightening out of the tangle between the friends must carry with it the better understanding between Jean and his father.

As to herself, the girl had not one thought. She was completely lifted out of self,—carried away with the intentness of her solicitude for Jean's future.

The situation appealed to her sharpest instincts. Its possibilities passed through her alert mind before she had reached the door. Glorified in her purpose, she flung it wide open.

She was confronted by two persons,—the one bowing, hat in hand; the other smiling, radiantly beautiful.

Mlle. Fouchette stood for a moment like one suddenly turned to stone.

This was more than she had bargained for. She leaned against the wall instinctively, as if needing more substantial support than her limbs. Her throat seemed parched, so that when she would have spoken the result was merely a spasmodic gasp. Even the friendly semi-darkness of the little antechamber failed to hide her confusion from her visitors.

Then, recovering her self-possession by a violent effort, she reopened the inner door and announced, feebly,—

"Monsieur Lerouge,—Mademoiselle Remy!"



CHAPTER XXI

Fortunately for Mlle. Fouchette, Jean's astonishment and temporary confusion at the unexpected apparition of the angel of his dreams extinguished every other consideration.

Mlle. Remy stood before him—in his appartement—smiling, gracious, a picture of feminine youth and loveliness,—her earnest blue eyes looking straight into his lustrous brown ones, searching, penetrante!

He forgot Fouchette; he forgot his friend Henri; he forgot even the presence of an angry father.

"Hello, Jean!"

"Henri, mon ami!"

Recalled partially to his senses, Jean embraced his old friend after the effusive, dramatic French fashion. They kissed each other's cheeks, as if they were brothers who had been long parted.

"We will begin again, Henri," said Jean,—"from this moment we will begin again. Forgive me——"

"There!" cried Henri, "let us not go into that. We have both of us need of forgiveness,—I most of all. As you say, let us begin again. And in making a good start, permit me to present you to my sister Andree, whom you have met before, and, I have reason to believe, wish to meet again. I have brought her along without consulting you, first because she insists on going where I go, next as an evidence of good faith and a pledge of our future good-will. Mademoiselle Remy, mon cher ami."

"No apology is necessary for bringing in the sunshine with you, mon ami," said Jean, bending over the small hand.

"Monsieur Marot is complimentary," said Mlle. Remy.

For a moment her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze.

"But, then, I know him so well," she quickly added, recovering her well-bred self-possession,—"yes, brother Henri has often talked about you, and I have seen you——"

There was a faint self-consciousness apparent here. And he knew that she was thinking of his lonely watches in front of her place of residence.

They rapidly exchanged the usual courtesies of the day, in the usual elaborate and ornate Parisian fashion.

Mlle. Fouchette saw every minute detail of this meeting with an expression of intense concern. She weighed every look and word and gesture in the delicate, tremulous balance of love's understanding. And she realized that Jean's way was clear at last, and at the same time saw the consequences to herself.

Well, was not this precisely what she had schemed and labored to bring about?

Yet she stole away unobserved to the little kitchen, and there turned her face to the wall and covered her ears with her hands, as if to shut it all out. Her eyes were dry, but her heart was drenched with tears.

Meanwhile, the elder Marot, who had risen politely upon the entrance of Lerouge and his sister, stood apparently transfixed by the scene. At the sight of Andree his face assumed a curious mixture of eagerness and uncertainty. Upon the mention of her name the uncertainty disappeared. A flood of light seemed to burst upon him with the encomiums showered upon his son.

When Jean turned towards his father—being reminded by a plucking of the sleeve—he was confounded to behold a face of smiles instead of the one recently clouded with parental wrath.

"This is m-my father, Monsieur Lerouge,—Mademoiselle——"

"What? Monsieur Marot? Why, this is a double pleasure!" exclaimed Lerouge, briskly seizing the outstretched hand. "The father of a noble son must perforce be a noble father. So Andree says, and Andree has good intuitions.—Here, Andree; Jean's father! Just to think of meeting him on an occasion like this!"

Neither Lerouge nor his sister knew of the estrangement between Jean and his home. They had puzzled their heads in vain as to the reasons for Jean's retirement to the Rue St. Jacques, but were inclined to attribute it to politics or business reverses.

"Ah! so this is Monsieur Lerouge,—of Nantes," remarked the old gentleman when he got an opening.

"Of Nantes," repeated Lerouge.

"And this is Andree,—bless your sweet face!—and—and,"—turning a quizzical look on the wondering Jean,—"and 'the woman'!"

It was now Lerouge's turn to be astonished. Jean and the girl attempted to conceal their rising color by casting their eyes upon the floor. Marot pere was master of the situation.

"Your father was a noted surgeon," he continued, still holding the girl's hand.

"One of the best of his time," said Henri, proudly.

"And your mother——"

"Is dead, monsieur."

"Ah!"

The look of pain that passed swiftly over M. Marot's face was reflected in an audible sigh.

"One of the best of women," he went on, musingly,—"and you are the living image of your mother when I last saw her. Her name, too——"

"Oh, monsieur!" interrupted Andree, excitedly, "you knew my mother, then?"

"So well, my dear girl, that I asked her to be my wife."

"Ah!"

"Oh, monsieur!"

"Father!"

"That is the truth. It is the additional truth that my cousin, the doctor, got her."

"My father was your cousin?" asked Lerouge. "Why, I come right by the family resemblance, Jean!"

"Yes," laughingly retorted the latter, "and the family temper."

"I was not aware that your mother again married," observed M. Marot.

"Yes,—Monsieur Frederic Remy, the father of Andree, here," said Henri. "Alas! neither he nor my mother long survived the loss of their younger daughter."

"Then there is yet another child?"

"Was," replied the young man, sadly. "For Louise, who was two years younger than Andree, disappeared one day——"

"Disappeared!"

"Yes; and has never been heard of to this date. She was scarcely three years old. Whether she wandered away or was stolen, is dead or living, we do not know. She was never seen again."

"What a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!" murmured the elder Marot, thinking of the unhappy mother.

Mlle. Fouchette had reappeared a few moments before,—just in time to hear this family history. But she immediately returned to the kitchen, where she sank upon a low stool and bowed her face in her hands.

"Fouchette! Here, Fouchette!"

It was Jean's peremptory voice.

She hastily roused herself. She re-entered the little salon, and upon a sign from Jean conducted Henri Lerouge and his sister to Jean's bedroom, where she assisted Mlle. Remy to remove her hat. For up to this time the party had been grouped in running conversation without having settled down.

"How you tremble, child!" exclaimed Andree,—"and you look so scared and pale. Is it, then, so bad as all that? What is the matter? Have they been quarrelling? I don't understand."

"Andree!" whispered her brother, warningly. "Remember the salt woman!"

Mlle. Fouchette raised one little nervous finger to her lips and gently closed the door.

"Pray do not seem to notice," she whispered. "But you did not know, then, that Jean and his father have been estranged, oh! for months? That the poor young man had been cast off,—forsaken by father and mother——"

"But why?" insisted Mlle. Remy. "It must have been something dreadful,—some horrible mistake, I mean. Why should——"

The confusion of Mlle. Fouchette was too evident to press this questioning. And it was increased by the curious manner in which the pair regarded her.

For a single instant she had wavered. She had secretly pressed her lips to her sister's dress, and she felt that she could give the whole world for one little loving minute in her sister's arms.

"Fouchette!"

At least one dilemma relieved her from another; so she flew to answer Jean's call, like the well-trained servant she was fast becoming.

"That's right, Fouchette. I'm glad to find you more attentive to our guests than I am. But I've been so confoundedly upset—and everlastingly happy. We shall want another plate. Yes, my father will honor us. I say, Fouchette, what a night! What a night!"

"I am so glad, Monsieur Jean! I am so glad!"

He considered her an instant and then hustled her into the kitchen and shut the door. "Let us consult a moment, my petite menagere," were his last words to be overheard. In the kitchen he took her hands in his.

"Look here, Fouchette! I owe my happiness to you. Everything, mind you,—everything!"

"But have I not been happy, too?"

"There! For what you have done for me I could not repay you in a lifetime, little one."

"Then don't try, Monsieur Jean," she retorted, as if annoyed.

"And I'm going to ask you to increase the obligation. It is that you will continue to preserve the character you have assumed,—just for this occasion, you know. It will save me from——"

"Ah, ca! It is not much, Monsieur Jean," she interrupted, with a seraphic smile. "To be your servant, monsieur, is—— I mean, to do anything to please you is happiness."

"You are good, Fouchette,—so good! And when I think that I have no way to repay you——"

"Have I laid claim to reward?" she interposed, suddenly withdrawing her hands. "Have I asked for anything?"

"No, no! that is the worst of it!"

"Only your friendship,—your—your esteem, monsieur,—it is enough. Yet now that your affairs are all right and that you are happy, we must—must part,—it will be necessary,—and—and——" There was a pleading note in her low voice.

"Well?"

"You have been a brother,—a sort of a brother and protector to me, anyhow, you know, and it would wrong—nobody——"

The blood had slowly mounted to her neck as she spoke and the lips quivered a little as she offered them.

It was the last, and when he was gone she felt that it would strengthen her and enable her to bear up under the burden she had laid upon herself. She went about the additional preparations for the dinner mechanically.

There was not a happier quartette in all Paris on this eventful evening than that which sat around the little table in Jean Marot's humble appartement in ancient Rue St. Jacques.

And poor little Mlle. Fouchette!

The very sharpness of the contrast made her patient, resolute abnegation more beautiful, her sacrifice more complete, her poignant suffering more divine. Unconsciously she rose towards the elevated plane of the Christ. She wore the crown of thorns in her heart; on her face shone the superhuman smile of sainthood.

If in his present sudden and overwhelming happiness Jean forgot Mlle. Fouchette except when she was actually before him he must be forgiven. But neither his father nor Henri Lerouge was so blind, though the latter evidently saw Mlle. Fouchette from a totally different point of view.

The gracious manner and encouraging smile of Mlle. Remy happily diverted Fouchette from the consideration of her critics. Every kind word and every smile went home to Mlle. Fouchette. And for the moment she gave way to the pleasure they created, as a stray kitten leans up against a warm brick. Sometimes it seemed as if she must break down and throw herself upon the breast of this lovely girl and claim her natural right to be kept there, forever next to her heart!

At these moments she had recourse to her kitchen, where she had time to recover her equilibrium. But Fouchette was a more than ordinarily self-possessed young woman. She had been educated in a severe school, though one in which the emotions were permitted free range. It was love now which required the curb.

She served the dinner mechanically, but she served it well. Amid the wit and badinage she preserved the shelter of her humble station.

Yet she knew that she was the frequent subject of their conversation. She saw that she was being covertly scrutinized by Lerouge. And, what was harder to bear, the elder Marot showed his sympathy by good-natured comments on her appearance and service. The cry of "Fouchette!" recalling her to all this from her refuge in the kitchen invariably sent a tremor through her slender frame.

"Henri said you were so practical!" laughingly remarked Mlle. Andree.

"And am I not?" asked Jean, looking around the room.

"Not a bit! There is nothing practical here,—no,—and your Fouchette is the most impossible of all."

"Ah, Jean!" broke in Henri, "this Fouchette,—come now, tell us about her."

"With proper reservations," said M. Marot, seriously.

"No; everything!" cried Andree.

She could see that it teased him, and persisted. "Anybody would know that she is not a common servant. Look at her hands!"

"I've seen your Fouchette somewhere under different circumstances," muttered Lerouge, "but I can't just place her."

"Well," said Jean, after a moment's reflection, "she is an uncommon servant."

He began to see that some frankness was the quickest way out of an unpleasant subject. "The fact is, as she has already told my father, Fouchette is an artist's model and lives next door to me. She takes care of my rooms for a consideration. But all the money in the world would not repay what I owe her,—quite all of my present happiness! Let me add, my dear mademoiselle, that the less attention you show her, the less you seem to notice her, the better she will like it."

"How interesting!" cried Andree; "and how unsatisfactory!"

"Very," said her brother, with a meaning smile.

"Some day, mademoiselle, I will tell you,—not now. I beg you to excuse me just now."

"Certainly, monsieur; but, pardon me, she must be ill,—and her face is heavenly!"

"Is it?" asked Jean. "I had not noticed. Perhaps because one heavenly face is all I can see at the same time."

"Ah, monsieur!"

She tried to hide her confusion in a sip of champagne.

M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon the wall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and more leisurely examination.

Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andree's,—does any one know how these things come about?—and the girl's cheeks grew more rosy than usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes were lowered and she gently removed her hand from the table.

"Here is the true model for an artist," said he.

"But I never sat," she declared.

"Oh, don't be too sure."

"Never; wouldn't I remember it?"

"Perhaps not. One doesn't always remember everything."

She blushed through her smile. She had unconsciously yielded her hand again.

They talked airy nothings that conceal the thoughts. Then, in a few minutes, she discovered that his hand again covered hers and was innocently caressing it. She drew it away in alarm.

"Do not take it away! Are we not cousins, mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes; funny, isn't it? Long-lost cousins!" She laughed merrily.

"And now that we are found——"

"It seems to me as if I had known you a long time," she continued,—"for years and years! Or, perhaps it is because—because——"

"Come! let me show you something," he interrupted, still retaining the hand, "some poor sketches of mine."

He led her to the portfolio-stand in the corner and seated himself at her feet.

The elder connoisseurs, meanwhile, had taken the sketch in which they were interested from its place on the wall to the better light at the table.

"'La Petite Chatte.'"

"An expressive title, truly."

"Why, its Mademoiselle Fouchette!" exclaimed M. Marot, holding the picture off at arm's length.

"It is, indeed! And the real Fouchette as I last beheld her at the notorious Cafe Barrate. It's the 'Savatiere'! That solves a mystery."

Lerouge thereupon took M. Marot by the arm, replaced the picture on the wall, and led the old gentleman to the corner farthest from that occupied by the younger couple, and there the two conversed over their cigars in a low tone for a long time.

In that time they had mutually disposed of the other couple,—Henri Lerouge, as brother and legal custodian of Mlle. Andree Remy; M. Marot, as father of Jean Marot. They had not only agreed that these two should marry, but had arranged as to the amount of the "dot" of the girl and the settlement upon the young man. Mlle. Andree had two hundred and fifty thousand francs in her own right, but the chief consideration in the case was, to M. Marot, the fact that she was the daughter of the beautiful woman whom he had once loved. For this consideration he agreed to double the amount of her dot and give his son a junior partnership in the silk manufactory at Lyons.

This arrangement had no relation whatever to the sentiment existing between the young couple. It would have been concluded, just the same, if they had not loved.

In French matrimonial matters love is a mere detail. The parents, or those who stand in the place of parents, are the absolute masters, and therefore the high contracting powers. Sons as well as daughters are subject to this will until after marriage. It is a custom strong as statute law. If inclination coincide with parental desire, well and good; if not, a social system which rears young orphan girls to feed the insatiate lust of Paris winks at the secret lover and the mistress.

With the reasonable certainty of the approval of both father and brother and with a heart surcharged with love for the sweet girl whom he felt was not indifferent to him, Jean had reason to feel happy and confident. As they bent over the pictures they formed a charming picture themselves.

"Really, monsieur!"

Mlle. Remy saw herself reproduced with such faithfulness that she started.

"Well?"

Jean looked up in her face with all his passion concentrated in his eyes.

She was bending over the head of a young girl with a profusion of fair hair down upon her shoulders, and she forgot. Another showed the same face in a pen-and-ink profile, with the same glorious hair.

"They are amateurish——"

"Au contraire," she interrupted, "they are quite—but Henri did not tell me, monsieur, that you were an artist."

"And he was right, cousin."

She had turned her face away from the light, so he could not see her blushes. For these pictures told a story of love more vividly and more eloquently than words. She was trying to piece out that which remained untold.

"The pictures are well done, Cousin Jean,—and your model——"

"Fouchette."

"Oh, yes; I see now! She is a model, truly!"

Mlle. Remy seemed to derive a good deal of satisfaction from this conclusion.



"But," she added, quickly, "do you think she looks so much like me?"

"A mere suggestion," he said.

"It is curious,—very curious, mon—Cousin Jean; but do you know——"

Their heads were very close together. Unconsciously their lips met.

Mlle. Fouchette had been engaged in the work of washing dishes. It was an excuse to kill time and something to occupy her attention. As she carefully arranged everything in its place she realized that it was for the last occasion. She knew her work was done. So she made everything particularly bright and clean. The dessert dishes and glasses were still on the table, and she had stepped out cautiously and timidly to fetch them. It was a critical moment.

With the noiseless tread of a scared animal she turned back again into the kitchen, and, closing the door softly, leaned against it with ghostly face. She quickly stuffed the corner of her apron into her mouth to keep back the scream of agony that involuntarily rose to her lips. Her thin hands were tightly clinched and her body half drawn into a knot.

"Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

Even the Saviour stumbled and fell beneath the heavy cross He had assumed to insure the happiness of others.

And Mlle. Fouchette was only a poor little, weak, nervous, ignorant woman, groping blindly along the same rugged route of her Calvary.

Unconsciously the same despairing cry had broken from her lips.

"Fouchette!"

It was Jean's voice.

Half fainting, half terror-stricken at her unfortunate position, she drew a needle from the bosom of her dress and thrust it into her thigh—twice.

"Fouchette!"

"Yes, monsieur!"

"That poor girl is certainly ill, Je—Cousin Jean," said Mlle. Remy, sympathetically.

"Nonsense!" he lightly replied.

He wished to spare the unhappy Fouchette this attention. "She has worked too hard. Drop it till to-morrow, little one," he said, gently. "You must let things alone for to-night."

"Indeed, it is nothing, monsieur. I must clear away these dessert dishes——"

"Have a glass of wine," insisted Andree, putting her arm affectionately about the slender waist and pouring out a glass of champagne.

Lerouge regarded them with a frown of disapproval. Turning to M. Marot, he said,—

"You were congratulating France just now upon a new ministry, monsieur. At least the new ministry ought to give us a new set of spies. Don't you think——"

But the wine-glass broke the last sentence, as it fell to the floor with a crash.

Only the protecting arm of Mlle. Remy sustained the drooping figure for a moment, then Jean and his affianced bride bore it gently to the model's home.



CHAPTER XXII

"C'est fini!"

The girl raised herself wearily from her knees by the side of her bed, where she had fallen when she had bravely gotten rid of Jean and Andree.

"C'est fini!"

She repeated the words as she looked around the room, the poor, cheap little chamber where she had been so happy. Just so has many a bereaved returned from the freshly made grave of some beloved to see the terrible emptiness of life in every corner of the silent home.

Mlle. Fouchette had grievously overrated her capacity to bear—to suffer. Instead of lightening the load she had assumed, the discovery of her sister in the beloved had doubled it.

She had schooled herself to believe that to be near the object of her love would be enough. She had thought that all else, being impossible, might be subordinated to the great pleasure of presence. That to serve him daily, to share after a fashion his smiles and sorrows, to be at his elbow with her sympathy and counsel, would be her happiness,—all that she could ask for in this world. It would be almost as good as marriage, n'est-ce pas?

Fouchette was in error. Not wholly as to the last assumption; it was a false theory, marriage or no marriage. Countless thousands of better and more intellectual people have in other ways found, are finding, will continue to find, it to be so.

Mlle. Fouchette's tactical training in the great normal school of life had not embraced Love. Therefore no line of retreat had been considered. She was not only defeated, she was overwhelmed.

All of her theories had vanished in a breath.

Instead of finding happiness in the happiness of those whom she loved, it was torture,—the thumbscrew and the rack. It was terrible!

How could she have imagined that she might live contentedly under this day after day?

The malice of Lerouge had been but the knock-out blow. It seemed to her now that his part was not half so cruel as that one kiss,—the kiss of Andree's, that had stolen hers, Fouchette's, from his warm lips!

Yes, it was finished.

There was nothing to live for now. Her sun had set. The light had gone out, leaving her alone, friendless, without a future.

The fact that she had herself willed it, brought it about, and that she earnestly desired their happiness, made her despair none the less dark and profound.

She felt that she must get away,—must escape in some way from the consequences of her own folly.

She precipitated herself down the narrow stairs at the risk of her neck and darted down the Rue St. Jacques half crazed with grief. She had made no change in her attire, had not even paused to restrain the blonde hair that fell over her face.

Rue St. Jacques is in high feather at this hour in the evening. It is the hour of the jolly roysterer, male and female. Students, soldiers, bohemians, and bums jostle each other on the corners, while the dame de trottoir stealthily lurks in the shadows with one eye out for possible victims and the other for the agents de police. The cafes and wine-shops are aglare and the terrasse chairs are crowded to their fullest of the day.

The spectacle, therefore, of a pretty bonne racing along the middle of the street very naturally attracted considerable attention.

This attention became excitement when another woman, who seemed to spring from the same source, broke away in hot pursuit of the servant.

Nothing so generously appealed to the sensitiveness of Rue St. Jacques as a case of jealousy, and women-baiting was a favorite amusement of the quarter.

There was now a universal howl of delight and approbation. When the pursuing woman tripped and fell into the gutter the crowd greeted the unfortunate with a shower of unprintable pleasantries.

"Ma foi! but she is outclassed!"

"Oh, she's only stopped to rest."

"Too much absinthe!"

"The cow can never catch the calf!"

"The fat salope! To think she could have any show in a race or in love with the pretty bonne!"

"Yes; but where's the man?"

"Dame! It is one-eyed Mad!"

"Let her alone,—she's drunk!"

The fallen woman had laboriously regained her feet and turned a torrent of vulgar maledictions upon the jeering crowd.

Then, having regained her equilibrium, she staggered forward in renewed pursuit. The broad-bladed, double-edged knife of the Paris assassin gleamed in her right hand.

"Bah! she will never catch her," said a man whose attention had been called to this.

"Let them fight it out," assented his companion.

"Hold! She is down again."

Madeleine had reached the Rue Soufflot, and, in turning the corner sharply, had fallen against the irregular curb.

The stragglers from the wine-shops hooted. The drunken women fairly screamed with delight. It was so amusing.

But Madeleine did not get up this time.

This was more amusing still; for the crowd, now considerably augmented by the refuse from the neighboring tenements, launched all sorts of humorous suggestions at the prostrate figure, laughing uproariously at individual wit.

A few ran to where the dark figure lay, and a merry ruffian playfully kicked the prostrate woman.

Still the woman stirred not.

The ruffian who had just administered the kick slipped and fell upon her, whereat the crowd fairly split with laughter. It was so droll!

But the man did not join in this, for he saw that he had slipped in a thin red stream that flowed sluggishly towards the gutter, and that his hands were covered with warm blood.

"Pardieu! she's dead," he whispered.

And they gently turned her over, and found that it was so.

Madeleine had fallen upon her arm, and the terrible knife was yet embedded in her heart.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, unconscious of this pursuit and its fatal consequences, Mlle. Fouchette had swiftly passed from the narrow Rue St. Jacques into Rue Soufflot, and was flying across the broad Place du Pantheon. Blind to the glare of the wine-shops, deaf to the gay chanson of a group of students and grisettes swinging by from the Cafe du Henri Murger,—indeed, dead to all the world,—the grief-stricken girl still ran at the top of her speed—towards——

The river?

Her poor little overtaxed brain was in a whirl. She had no definite idea of anything beyond getting away. As a patient domestic beast of burden suddenly resumes his savage state and rushes blindly, pell-mell, he knows not where, so Mlle. Fouchette now plunged into the oblivion of the night.

Unconsciously, too, she had taken the road to the river,—the broad and well-travelled route of the Parisian unfortunate.

Ah! the river!

For the first time it occurred to her now,—how many unbearable griefs the river had swallowed up.

There were so many things worse than death. One of these was to live as Madeleine had lived. Never that! Never! Not now,—once, perhaps; but not now. Oh, no; not now!

The river seemed to beckon to her,—to call upon her, reproachfully, to come back to it,—to open its slimy arms and invite her to the palpitating bosom that had soothed the sorrows of so many thousands of the children of civilization.

And Fouchette was the offspring of the river. Why had she been spared, then? Had it proved worth while?

She recalled every incident of that eventful period. She remembered the precise spot where she had been pulled out that gray morning, years before.

This idea had flitted through her mind, at first vaguely, then, still unsought, began to assume definite shape.

Eh, bien,—soit! From the river to the river!

Mlle. Fouchette, as we have seen, had all the spontaneity of her race, accentuated by a life of caprice and reckless abandon. To conceive was to execute. Consequences were an after-consideration, if at all worthy of such a thing as consideration.

She stopped. But this hesitation was not in the execution of her suddenly formed purpose. It was necessary to recover breath, and to decide whether to go by the way of the Rue Clovis, or to turn down by the steep of Rue de la Mont Ste. Genevieve to the Boulevard St. Germain.

It was but for a few panting moments.

The clock of the ancient campanile of the Lycee Henri IV. struck the hour of eleven. The hoarse, low, booming sound went sullenly rumbling and roaring up and down the stone-ribbed plaza of the Pantheon, and rolled and reverberated from the great dome that sheltered the illustrious dead of France.

The curious old church of St. Etienne du Mont rose immediately in front of the girl, and the sound of the bells startled her,—shook her ideas together,—and, with the sight of the church, restored, in a measure, her presence of mind.

Her thoughts flew instantly back to the happy scene she had recently left behind. The bells of the old tower,—ah! how often she and Jean had regulated their menage by their music!

And she looked up at the grimly mixed pile of four centuries, with its absurd little round tower, its grotesque gargouilles, and grass-grown walls,—St. Etienne du Mont.

Doubtless they would be married here.

To be married where reposed the blessed bones of Ste. Genevieve, or at St. Denis amid the relics of royalty, was the dream of every youthful Parisienne. And Ste. Genevieve was the patronne of the virgins as well as of the city of Paris.

Mlle. Fouchette had witnessed a wedding at good old St. Etienne du Mont,—indeed, any one might see a wedding here upon any day of the week, and at almost any hour of the day, in season,—and she now recalled the pretty scene. Yes, of course Jean and Andree would be married here.

Obeying a curious impulse, the girl, still breathing heavily, ascended the broad stone steps and peeped into the little vestibule. The dark baize door within stood ajar, and she could see the faint twinkle of distant lights and smell the escaping odors from the last mass.

She would go in—just for a moment—to see again where they would stand before the altar. It would do no harm. Her last thoughts should be of those she loved,—loved dearer—yes, a great deal more dearly than life.

Entering, she mechanically followed her training at Le Bon Pasteur, and, bending a knee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the font and crossed her heaving breast.

The great wax tapers were still burning about the ancient altar, and here and there pairs and bunches of expiatory candles flickered in the little chapels.

As no other light relieved the sombre blackness of the vaulted edifice, an indefinite ghostliness prevailed, from out of which the numerous gilded forms of the Virgin and the saints appeared half intangible, as if hovering about with no fixed support or substance.

The church might have been deserted, so far as any living indications were visible, though two or three darker splotches on the darkness could have been taken for as many penitents seeking the peace which passeth understanding.

Gliding softly down the right, outside of the pews and row of stately columns, Mlle. Fouchette stopped only at the last pillar, from which she had a near view of the pretty white altar. She remained there, leaning against the pillar, her eyes bent upon the altar, motionless, for a long time.

During that period she had pictured just how the young couple would look,—how beautiful the bride would appear,—how noble and handsome Jean Marot would shine at her side.

She supplied all of the details as she had seen them once before, correcting and rearranging them in her mind with scrupulous care.

All of this dreamily and without emotion, as one lies in the summer shade idly tracing the fleeting clouds across a summer's sky.

She had grown wonderfully calm, and when she turned away she gently put the picture behind her as an accomplished material thing.

On her way she paused before the little chapel of Ste. Genevieve. There were candles burning before the altar, and a delicious, holy incense filled the air.

Mlle. Fouchette recalled the stories of the intercession of Ste. Genevieve in behalf of virgin suppliants, and impetuously fell upon her knees outside the railing and bowed her face in her hands.

She knew absolutely nothing of theological truth and error; religion was to her only a vague scheme devised for other people—not for her. She had never in all her life uttered a prayer save on compulsion. Now, impulsively and without forethought, she was kneeling before the altar and acknowledging God and the intercession of the Christ.

It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity—the weakest and the strongest, the worst and the best—to seek in the hour of suffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden the load of life.

To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did not know how,—and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteur seemed the mere empty rattle of beads.

She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything by halves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, passionately, and with the hot tears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word.

It would have been, from her point of view, quite impertinent for her to thrust her little affairs directly before the Throne. She was too timid even to appeal to the Holy Virgin, as she had often heard others do, with the familiarity of personal acquaintance; but she felt that she might approach Ste. Genevieve, patronne des vierges, with some confidence, if not a sense of right.

She silently and tearfully laid her heart bare to Ste. Genevieve, and with her whole passionate soul called upon her for support and assistance. If ever a young virgin needed help it was she, Fouchette, and if Ste. Genevieve had any influence at the higher court, now was the time to use it. First it was that Jean and Andree might be happy and think of her kindly now and then; next, that she might be forgiven for everything up to date and be permitted to be good,—that some way might be opened to her, and that she might be kept in that way.

Otherwise she must surely die.

If Sister Agnes might only be restored to her, it would be enough. It was all she would ask,—the rest would follow. She must have Sister Agnes,—good Sister Agnes, who loved her and would protect her and lead her safely to the better life. Oh! only send her Sister Agnes——

"My child, you are in trouble?"

That gentle voice! The soft, caressing touch!

Ah! le bon Dieu!

It was Sister Agnes, truly!

The religieuse, ever struggling against the desires of the flesh, had unconsciously kneeled side by side with the youthful suppliant. Disturbed by the sobs of the latter, she had addressed her sympathetically.

To poor little ignorant and believing Fouchette it was as if one of the beautiful painted angels had suddenly assumed life and, leaving the vaulted ceiling, had come floating down to softly brush her with her protecting wings. Awe-stricken at what seemed a direct manifestation of God, she found no words to express either surprise or joy. She simply toppled over into the arms of the astonished religieuse and lost consciousness. The reaction was too great.

Sister Agnes, who had not recognized in the girl dressed as a bonne-a-toute-faire her protegee of Le Bon Pasteur, was naturally somewhat startled at this unexpected demonstration, and called aloud for the sacristan.

"Blessed be God!" she exclaimed, when they had carried the girl into the light of the vestry,—"it is Mademoiselle Fouchette!"

"What's she doing here?" demanded the man, with a mixture of suspicion and indignation.

"Certainly nothing bad, monsieur. No, it can be nothing bad which leads a young girl to prostrate herself at this hour before the altar of the blessed Ste. Genevieve!"

"Ste. Genevieve! That girl? That—— Mere de Dieu! what next?"

"Chut!"

"But it's a sacrilege, my sister. It's a profanation of God's holy temple!"

"S-sh! monsieur——"

"It's a wonder she was not stricken dead! Before Ste. Genevieve!"

"S-sh! monsieur," protested the religieuse, gently, "ne jugez pas!"

"But——"

"Ne jugez pas!"

They had, in the mean time, applied simple restoratives with such effect that Mlle. Fouchette soon began to exhibit signs of reanimation.

"Will you kindly leave me alone with her here for a few minutes?" whispered Sister Agnes.

"Willingly," replied the ruffled attendant. "And mighty glad to——"

"S-sh!"

When Mlle. Fouchette's eyes were finally opened they first fell upon the motherly face of Sister Agnes, then wandered rapidly about the room, as if to fix her situation definitely, to again rest upon the religieuse. And this look was one of inexpressible content,—of boundless love and confidence.

Sister Agnes, who was seated on the edge of the sofa on which the girl lay extended, leaned over and affectionately kissed her lips.

"You are much better now, my child?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! I was afraid it might be only—only a dream,—one dreams such things, n'est-ce pas? But it is true! There is really a God, and prayers are answered—when one believes,—yes; when one believes very hard! Even the prayers of a poor little, miserable, wicked, motherless girl like me. Ah!——"

"Cer—certainly, cherie; but don't try to talk just yet. Wait a bit. You will feel stronger."

The religieuse thought the girl's mind was wandering.

"And good Ste. Genevieve heard me and had you sent to me. It was all I asked. For I knew that if I only had you, I could be good, and I would know what to do. It was all I asked—for myself. And you were sent at once. Dear, good, sweet Sister Agnes!—the only one who ever loved me!—except Tartar,—and love is necessary, n'est-ce pas?"

"You asked for me?"

Sister Agnes listened now with intense interest. Mlle. Fouchette was a revelation.

"Oh! yes,—and they sent you—almost at once! Blessed Ste. Genevieve!"

"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wiping her eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. She tried to speak cheerily.

"Take me as you did when I first saw you,—when I was in the cell,"—and the voice now was that of a pleading child,—"that way; yes,—kiss me once more."

On the matronly bosom of Sister Agnes the girl told her story,—the story of her love, of her suffering, of her hopes, of her final failure, of her despair.

"You see, my more than mother, it was too much——"

"Too much! I should think so!" interrupted the good sister, brusquely, to prevent a total breakdown. "Sainte Mere de Dieu! such is for the angels in heaven, mon enfant,—for mortals, never!"

"When I found she was my sister,—that her brother was my brother,—and that even Jean Marot—I could not be one to spoil this happiness by making myself known. No, I would rather die. I should hate myself even if they did not hate me. No, no, no! I could never do that!"

"Fouchette, you are an angel!"

The religieuse slipped to the floor at the girl's side, and covered the small hands with kisses. She felt the insignificance of her own worldly trials.

"I am not worthy to sit in your presence, Fouchette," she faltered.

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As they slowly passed out of the church the younger seemed to support the elder woman. Both bowed for a few moments in silence before the altar of Ste. Genevieve.

And when they arose, Mlle. Fouchette took from the bosom of her dress a bit of folded paper and put it in the box of offerings inside the rail.

It was the bank-note for five hundred francs.

At the door the grim sacristan, long impatient for this departure, growled his final disapproval of Mlle. Fouchette.

"She's a terror," he said.

"She's a saint, monsieur," was the quiet reply of Sister Agnes.

A few minutes later the great door of the Dames de St. Michel closed upon the two women. Mlle. Fouchette had ceased to exist, and Mlle. Louise Remy had entered upon the coveted life of peace and love.

THE END

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