The piercing cry of Fouchette seemed yet to linger in the misty
morning air, thrilling the distant ear, vibrating upon the unstrung
nerves of the outcasts beneath the far-away bridges, borne upon the
surface of the waters, when it was answered out of the darkness by a
sharp, shrill note of sympathy.
Those who have heard the wild hyena in his native fastnesses
responding to the appeal of its imperilled young might have understood
this half-human, half-savage cry of the roused animal.
And almost simultaneously came the swift rush of feet that seemed to
claw the granite into flying electric sparks.
The repulsive face of the convict murderer turned pale at the sound,
and at the sight of the glowing eye-balls his ugly teeth clattered
against each other. Nevertheless, the instinct of self-preservation
made him crouch low, deadly knife in hand, to receive the expected
attack.
At the sight of le Cochon the dog emitted a howl of wrath. With the
marvellous judgment, however, of the trained animal that will not be
turned from the trail of a deer by the scent of skunk, this sight
scarcely checked his plunge.
Tartar's divination was unerring. He wasted no effort in battling with
the current or paddling around in a circle, but turned at once and
swam rapidly with the stream. He spent no breath in useless
vociferation. All his canine strength was put forth to an end. And
these instincts were quickly rewarded by the sight of a strange
object floating ahead of him,--something a little higher, than the
water.
The fiend who had packed the old rags into the bottom of the pannier
with the double motive of indicating an accident and of carrying the
child under beneath its weight had overdone the trick. For the rags,
once soaked, proved so much heavier than the frail body that it turned
turtle and threw the child face upward and partially above the
surface. The load instead of sinking buoyed her up, and, being
strapped securely to it, she could not fall off. Whereas if she had
simply been thrown into the river without these precautions, she would
have gone to the bottom.
With a succession of low whines now that were almost human sobs, the
excited spaniel quickened his stroke, if, indeed, such a thing were
possible, and redoubled his energies. He saw that it was the body of
his beloved mate.
But when he reached the floating object and seized it with his teeth
it was to find that he was powerless to drag it ashore. In vain he
struggled and splashed and tugged at it. The load was too much for
him. Almost frantic from disappointment, he soon became exhausted. He
seemed to realize that he would not only be unable to save his little
mistress, but was likely to perish with her. It was not long before
his fight ceased. He hung on by his teeth now to keep from sinking.
Thus the combination, waterlogged basket, unconscious girl, and
exhausted dog, floated silently along, under the National Bridge, past
the bridge of Tolbiac, and came opposite the great freight-yards of
the Orleans Railway on the left and the greater Entrepôts de Bercy on
the right.
The homeless of both sexes that swarm the shelter of the bridges of
the Seine were just awakening to life and a renewed sense of misery.
The thin fog had begun to lift. The sharper eyes of the dog discovered
the proximity of human beings before the latter could see him, and he
let go of his floater long enough to utter a few sharp yelps of
distress.
A tramp, wider awake or less benumbed by liquor than his fellows,
heard the sounds from the river and called the attention of
companions.
A dog in distress,--it was enough to rouse the sympathetic blood of
any true Parisian. The more active of the men ran vociferously along
the bank, raising the watchmen of either shore.
Numerous barges and tugs lay moored along the Quai de la Gare. From
these lights began to show. Men sprang up as if by magic. Those on one
side of the river shouted to those on the other side to find out what
was the matter, and the other side shouted back that they didn't
know,--but it was somebody or something in the river. As there is
always "somebody" in the river, the idea did not attract so much
attention as the possibility that it was "something."
When it was ascertained that it was a dog--which followed upon
additional pathetic appeals from the water--there was wild excitement
all along the line. Men tumbled over barrels and boxes, and ran plump
up against walls, and fell into pits, and even into the river itself,
in their anxiety to keep pace with the sounds from the fog.
Others began hastily to get out boats, and ran about with lanterns and
oars and ends of rope and other life-saving paraphernalia. These boats
put off simultaneously from either side, and contained police agents,
bargemen, roustabouts, watchmen, watermen, and bums. As the
inhabitants of the Long Island shore at the cry of "A whale!" man the
boats and race to get in the first harpoon, so these rivermen of the
Seine now pulled for a drowning dog.
The conflicting sounds of human voices, the grating of boats against
the stones, the rattle of chains, the splash of oars, were plainly
heard and as plainly understood by the intelligent animal now
struggling with death. Through his set jaws, which still clung to the
child's clothing, or, rather, through his nose, there came occasional
whines of distress that were almost heart-rending in their intensity.
These last faint appeals for help directed the rescuers.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed a waterman, nearing the spot and rowing
alongside.
"It's a child!" screamed another.
"No, it's a dog," said a third.
The light was still uncertain and objects confusing.
"It's dog and child----"
"It's dead!"
"Not yet, monsieur."
"I mean the child."
"Dead?"
"No; the dog has held its face above water."
"The dog,--quick! he's sinking!"
"Here!"
"A rope!"
"There!"
"No, no! Catch him by the neck!"
"Save the child first!"
"I've got him!"
"And I've got her!"
"Hang on to the dog! Pull him into the boat, stupid!"
"Why, she's strapped down to something!"
"What is this, anyhow?"
"Pull the dog loose, man!--he'll drown her yet!"
"There!"
"Your knife, Pierre!"
"Hold!"
This was from the river policeman, who held up his bull's-eye lantern
so that it threw a yellow glare on the white upturned face.
"She's dead, poor little thing!"
"We shall bring in the body just as it is," said the official.
"But----"
"That's the law!"
"Tonnerre! Is it the law to let a child drown in one's sight?"
"Oh, she's dead enough, I'm afraid."
"I don't know about that."
"Bring it in just as it is," repeated the official, adjusting a rope
to the mysterious thing beneath the body.
"Sacré bleu! And if she's alive?"
"Poor doggie! He's about done for too."
And so it really seemed, for Tartar lay in the bottom of the boat,
still breathing, but in convulsive gasps. In his teeth remained a
portion of the child's clothing, torn away with him. He had hung to
his charge to the last. His jaws had never relaxed.
In the mean time the whole fleet with its spoils had been floating
steadily down with the powerful current. Amidst the wrangle of
contending voices, and with some angry altercation, the police boat
and its accompanying consorts were towing the yet unknown object and
its silent burden towards the shore.
This was not an easy job, since the river becomes more narrow as it
threads the city, and the current proportionately stronger, and the
undertow caught at the low-hanging mass as if determined to bear it
down to the morgue just below. They had been carried under the Pont de
Bercy and were drawing near the Quai d'Austerlitz. Finally they got
ashore at the Gare d'Orléans.
"Parbleu! it's a little chiffonnière!"
"Truly!"
"She has evidently fallen into the river with her basket on her back."
They had now, in the rapidly growing daylight, discovered the
character of the object that held her in its embrace. In fact, when
half a dozen stout fellows had attempted to lift the whole thing out
of the water the rags had dropped out unseen and were borne away by
the current, leaving the light empty pannier and the body of the child
in their hands. And the men marvelled at the resistance they had
encountered.
A messenger had been at once despatched for medical assistance. The
great hospital of Salpêtrière was near at hand.
"May as well take her to the morgue," muttered one.
"Soon enough,--soon enough," replied the river policeman. "Follow the
custom."
Notwithstanding the general opinion that it was too late, a rough
boatman had torn off a section of his flannel shirt and was chafing
the cold little hands, while another rubbed the legs and a third tried
to restore respiration. These people were familiar with cases of
drowning, and knew the best and simplest immediate first aid by heart.
To their very great surprise a few minutes sufficed to show that the
child was still alive. By the time the doctor arrived she gave decided
signs of returning animation. Under the influence of his restoratives
she opened her eyes.
"Tartar!" she gasped.
"What's that, little one?" inquired the doctor, bending low over her.
She still lay on the stone quai, a laborer's coat beneath her extended
figure.
"Tar--Tartar," she repeated, again closing her eyes. "Oh, mon Dieu! I
remember now. That wretch!--it could not have been!"
"Maybe it's her dog," suggested a man.
"Yes,--Tartar----"
"There, my child,--don't! Is it the dog?"
"Yes,--tell me----"
"Oh, he's all right.--Say!"
He hailed the group gathered about the other victim of the river.
"How's the dog?"
"All right, Monsieur le Docteur!"
Fouchette heard and brightened perceptibly. The doctor increased the
effect by observing that the dog was coming around all right.
"But he's had a pretty close call."
"So it was Tartar, after all," whispered Fouchette. "Dear Tartar!"
"A brave dog, Tartar,--stuck to you to the last," put in the
policeman.
"Truly!"
Half a dozen men cried at once, "Vive Tartar!" with the enthusiasm of
true Frenchmen.
And if a dog ever did deserve the encomiums that were showered upon
him Tartar certainly was that dog.
As soon as Fouchette began to revive, a stalwart bargewoman, awakened
in her little cubby by the cries of the men in the vicinity, and who
had hastily turned out to see for herself, had disappeared for a
moment in her floating home, and shortly afterwards returned with some
substantial clothing borrowed from her family wardrobe.
"How thin the child is!" she remarked, as she substituted the dry
clothing on the spot.
"Thin!" growled a bystander; "she had to be mighty thin to come down
the river on an empty basket!"
"You see, she must have fallen in with the basket on her back----"
"I was pushed in," corrected Fouchette.
"Pushed into the river?"
"What's that?"
"Who did it, child?"
"Impossible!"
"There is some devilish crime here."
"It's a case for the police."
This last observation came from the policeman as he brought out his
note-book, while a buzz of indignation ran through the crowd.
Fouchette heard these mutterings and saw the inquisitorial pencil of
the official in uniform. He had shut off his light with a snap.
At this moment Tartar, having heard the voice of his mistress, had
struggled to his feet, and now dragged himself over to where she lay.
The crowd separated for him.
"Ah! Tartar!" exclaimed Fouchette, affectionately, raising her hand to
his head.
With a whimper of joy the noble animal licked her hand, her face and
neck, wagging his bedraggled tail with intense satisfaction, winding
up this demonstration by lying down by her side as closely as he could
get, and giving a long breath, which in a human being would be called
a sigh.
The act moved the coarse bargewoman to tears, while the men turned
away to hide their emotion.
The silence was profound,--the testimony of a sentiment too deep for
mere words.
The police agent was the first to come to the practical point in the
situation. The violence phase of the case made him consequential. It
would invite the attention of his superiors. It would get his name in
the daily journals.
"What is your name, child?"
The intended victim of police interrogatory closed her eyes without
answering.
"You were thrown into the river. It is necessary for us to know the
name of the person who committed this outrage. If you do not know, it
is our business to find out. The miscreant must be arrested and
punished. Where do you live?"
No answer.
"Speak, my child! Speak up!"
She had reopened her eyes and now looked at him steadily, stonily, but
without a word. He was nonplussed.
As Fouchette began rapidly to recover her strength she also recovered
her self-possession, also the results of her training. Foremost among
these were her suspicions of the police, whom she had come to believe
were organized by society to restrain and harass the poor; that the
informer was the lowest grade of humanity.
In addition to these precepts of the barriers, Fouchette was afraid.
She knew the character of those whom she had left behind. She felt
certain that if she betrayed them to the police she would be put out
of the way.
Nor was this fear at all unreasonable. Without her recent terrible
experience she would have been fully aware of the danger that attended
a too loquacious tongue. The question of putting this one or that one
"out of the way" had frequently been discussed openly and seriously at
the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. A word from her now would send the
police down on that resort. Just a little while ago she was nervous
and unstrung, but, while she had at first formed the intention of
bringing le Cochon to book, the very first question brought her face
to face with the consequences. The second query increased her
obstinacy. The peremptory command to speak out left her mute. By
saying nothing she could compromise nobody.
"Only a street waif," suggested the doctor,--"probably has no home."
Fouchette, who had now risen to a sitting posture, nodded vivaciously.
"Then why didn't you say so?" growled the police agent. "Have you any
parents?"
"No."
"Whom were you living with, and where?"
"Nowhere."
"Now, again,--what is your name?"
Silence.
"Why don't you answer?"
"Because it's none of your business," snapped Fouchette.
"We'll see about that before the Commissaire," retorted the agent.
"He'll take the sulk out of you."
"Hold on," put in the bargewoman; "don't be harsh with her, monsieur.
She has been abused dreadfully. Her body is covered with bruises."
"So much more reason we should find out who did it,--who has attempted
to murder the child into the bargain."
"She has been cruelly beaten."
Fouchette nodded.
"I'll have to take you to the Commissariat, my child."
"I don't care where you take me,--that is, if Tartar goes along."
The dog regarded her inquiringly.
"Certainly," responded the agent,--"Tartar is a part of the case.
Allons!"
He would have picked her up in his powerful arms, but she rebelled
vigorously, protesting that she could walk.
"Very well. Good! You're a plucky one. You're the right stuff."
The little official party--the agent, Fouchette, Tartar, a waterman
carrying the basket, the stout bargewoman bearing the child's wet
clothing--took up the march, followed by several idlers in search of
sensation.
Having arrived at the Commissariat, it was necessary to await the hour
when it pleased Monsieur le Commissaire to put in an appearance. In
the mean time Fouchette was disposed of on a bench within a railed
space, her bare feet dangling, momentarily growing physically better
and more mentally perplexed.
What would they do with her?
She dared not return to the Podvins. She knew of no other place to go.
She was desperately alone in the world. Only Tartar, who once more
stretched himself at her feet, with his head in a position where he
could keep a half-open eye on his mistress. Tartar needed rest, and
was getting it.
The police! Next to the murderer of the barrier she hated and feared
the police.
Would they send her to prison?
After all, she thought, one might as well have been drowned to a
finish. It would have been an easy escape from this uncertainty and
agony of mind.
She began to feel hungry. Gradually the thoughts of what she should do
for something to eat, and where she would be able to get something for
Tartar, drove out all other thoughts. If they could only get away
now,--at this hour something might be found in the streets. She
calculated the chances of escape by a sudden dash for the door. But
there were several police agents lounging in the anteroom, and her
conductor sat at the little gate of the enclosure. So the scheme was
reluctantly dismissed. Anyhow, if they would let Tartar remain with
her she didn't care much.
During this time several successive attempts were made by the police
agents to get her to talk. She responded by "Yes" or "No" or a motion
of the head to all questions not connected with her case. On this
subject she was persistently silent.
An hour later the bargewoman, who had been in secret consultation with
the police agents, went out and got Fouchette a roll and some cheese,
which she ate eagerly. This woman was a coarse, masculine-looking
creature with hands as hard and rough as a fowl's foot, a distinct
moustache and tufts of hair cropping out here and there on her neck
and chin, but her voice assumed a kindly tone. She led Fouchette to
the farther corner of the room.
"I must go back to my boat now, chérie. Cheer up! And promise me one
thing,--don't try the river again. You were not born to be drowned,
anyhow. If you really want to die you'll have to try something else."
"But I don't want to die," protested Fouchette.
"And they send people to prison who attempt suicide," continued the
woman.
"But I didn't, madame."
"The bodies spoil the water. There are so many of them floating by.
I've seen hundreds of 'em in my time."
"No, indeed; I would rather live."
"That's right,--that's a dear! My barge is 'La Thérèse,'--named after
me. We are in the coal trade. I want you to come and see me, petite.
You shall take a trip to Rouen. Yes,--would you like to----"
"Oh, very much, madame!" interrupted Fouchette, joyfully.
"You shall."
"And Tartar?"
"Shall go too. We'll have fine times, I promise you. You will find us
at the Quai d'Austerlitz when in Paris."
"Thank you,--so much! I've seen the big boats go by lots of times and
wished I was on one--one with flowers and vines and a dog--Tartar. And
sometimes I've seen 'em in my sleep--yes."
Fouchette at once lost herself in this prospect. It would be the most
delightful thing in her life.
"Yes, it is very nice," continued the bargewoman. "Remember,
chérie,--'La Thérèse.' You can bring the clothes with you. Ask for
me,--'Thérèse.' My husband named the barge after me long ago."
"It's a pretty name," said the child.
"You think so? A name is--what is your real name, petite?"
"I don't know, madame," replied Fouchette, promptly and truthfully.
"What! Don't know your own name? Impossible!"
The woman was vexed, and made no effort to conceal her vexation. To be
outwitted by a mere child was too much to bear with equanimity. As
kindly disposed as she was by nature, she lost her temper at once at
what she considered a stupid falsehood.
"You're an obstinate little brute!" she exclaimed, in a passion,--a
state of mind aggravated by the laughter of the police agents in the
room.
"Yes, and a little liar," she added.
"M--mad--madame!" stammered the trembling child, whose bright visions
vanished in a twinkling.
"I don't wonder they threw you in the river,--not a bit!"
Fouchette's lips were now set in mute rage. She was up in arms at
once. Her steely eyes shot fire. The honest bargewoman had almost won
her childish confidence. Another word or two of kindness and she would
have gained an easy victory. Now, however, everything was upset and
the fat was in the fire.
Without a word Fouchette began to hurriedly divest herself of the
clothing she wore and to throw the garments, piece by piece, on the
floor.
So quickly was this accomplished that neither the astonished woman nor
the puzzled police agents could interfere before the child stood there
perfectly nude in the midst of them. Her frame, which was little more
than a living skeleton covered with marks of violence, fairly quivered
with anger. She choked so that she could not speak. In another minute
she had resumed her wet rags.
"Voilà!" she finally cried, pointing to the discarded garments. "At
least you can never say that I asked for them or didn't return them!"
"Mon Dieu!" The woman was overwhelmed,--breathless.
To be misunderstood is often the bitterest thing to bear in this life.
Madame Thérèse and little Fouchette were suffering simultaneously from
this evil.
"Take 'em away!"
"But listen, child! I----"
"Take 'em away!" she screamed.
Tartar rose with an ominous growl and looked from his mistress to the
woman.
"We don't need 'em, do we, Tartar? No! Let them take their gall and
honey with 'em. Yes! They make us tired. Yes!"
To all of these observations--somewhat heavily weighted with barrier
billingsgate--Tartar showed his approval by wagging his tail knowingly
and by covering the small face bent down to him with canine kisses.
"Better come away, madame," said an agent, in a low voice, to the
stupefied woman thus assailed. He laughed at her discomfiture. "It is
waste kindness and waste time. You can't do anything with that sort of
riffraff. It's only a stray cat fed to scratch you. They're a bad
lot."
The "bad lot" had overheard this police philosophy, and it confirmed
her pre-existing opinion of the police.
Monsieur le Commissaire was a grave and burly gentleman of middle
life, with iron-gray hair and moustache, and eyes that seemed to read
their object through and through. He pulled this moustache
thoughtfully as he listened to the report of the river police agent,
all the time keeping the eyes upon the diminutive but defiant child
before him. When he had learned everything,--including the scene in
the station,--he said, abruptly,--
"Come in here, my child. Don't be afraid,--nobody's going to hurt you.
Yes, bring the dog. Brave dog! Splendid fellow! Come! I'd like to own
that dog, now,--I would, indeed!" he observed, as he closed the door
of his private office; "but I suppose you wouldn't part with him for
the world now, would you?"
"N-no. But he isn't mine, monsieur," she replied, regretfully.
"No? What a pity! Then perhaps I could buy him, eh?"
"I--I don't know. Monsieur Podvin----"
She stopped suddenly. But the magistrate was looking abstractedly over
her head and did not appear to notice her slip of the tongue. He was
thinking. It gave little Fouchette time to recover.
He was something like the enthusiastic physician who sees in his
patient only "a case,"--something devoid of personality. He recognized
in this waif a condition of society to be treated. In his mind she was
a wholly irresponsible creature. Not the whole case in question,--oh,
no; but a part of the case. What she had been, was now, or would be
were questions that did not enter into the consideration. Nothing but
the case.
Instead of putting the child through a course of questions,--what she
anticipated and had steeled herself against,--he merely talked to her
on what appeared to be topics foreign to the subject immediately in
hand.
"You must be taken care of in some way," he declared. "Yes,--a child
like you should not be left in the streets of Paris to beg or
starve,--and it's against the law to beg----"
"But I never begged, monsieur," interrupted the child,--"never!"
"Of course not,--of course not! No; you are too proud to beg. That's
right. But you couldn't make a living picking rags, and the law
doesn't permit a child to pick rags in the streets of Paris."
"I never did, monsieur, never!"
"Of course not,--you would be arrested. But outside the barriers the
work is not lucrative. Charenton, for instance, is not as prolific of
rags as it is of rascals."
At the mention of Charenton Fouchette started visibly; but her
interlocutor did not seem to notice it.
"No; it does not even give as brave a child as you enough to eat,--not
if you work ever so hard,--let alone to provide comfortably for
Tar--for Tartar. Eh, my brave spaniel? We must get Tartar some
breakfast. Has Tartar had any breakfast?"
"No, monsieur,--oh, no! And he is so hungry!"
She was all eagerness and softness when it came to her faithful
companion. Tartar began to take a lively interest in the conversation
of which he knew himself the subject.
"Exactly," said the Commissaire, suddenly getting up. He had reached
his conclusion. "Now, remain here a few minutes, little one, while I
see about it."
He disappeared into the outer office and remained closeted in a small
cabinet with a telephone. Then, calling one of his men in plain
clothes aside, he gave some instructions in a rapid manner.
When he re-entered the private office he knew that a rascal named
Podvin kept a disreputable cabaret near the Porte de Charenton, and
that a small, thin child called Fouchette lived with the Podvins, who
also kept a dog, liver-colored, with dark-brown splotches, named
Tartar, but that the child was not yet missed, probably owing to the
fact that it was her customary hour in the streets of Charenton. In
the same time he had notified the Préfecture that a murderous attempt
had been made on a child, probably by some one of the gang that
infested the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers, and had been directed to
co-operate with two skilled Central men in an investigation.
"All right, petite," said the Commissaire, rubbing his hands and
assuming his most oily tone. "First we are going to have some dry
clothes and some shoes and stockings and----"
"I only--I never wore shoes and stockings," interrupted Fouchette,
somewhat embarrassed by this flood of finery. "I don't need 'em,
monsieur. It is only Tartar's----"
"Oh, we'll attend to Tartar also,--don't be afraid."
"Monsieur is very kind."
"It is nothing. Come along, now. You're going to ride in a nice
carriage, too,--for the crowd might follow you in the street, you
know,--and I'll send a man with you to take good care of you."
"But Tartar----"
"You can take him in the carriage with you if you wish,--yes, it is
better, perhaps. He might get run over or lost."
"Oh!"
And thus Fouchette rode in state, and in wet rags at the same time,
down past the great Jardin des Plantes, the Halle aux Vins, and along
the Boulevard St. Germain to Rue St. Jacques, where they turned down
across the Petit Pont and stopped in the court-yard of an immense
building across the plaza from Notre Dame. Tartar was somewhat uneasy,
as well as his little mistress, at this novelty of locomotion, but as
long as they were together it seemed to be all right. So they looked
out of the carriage windows at the sights that were as strange to
their eyes as if they had never before been in the city of Paris.
Meanwhile, to divert the child, the man at her side had gayly pointed
out the objects of interest.
"Ah! and there is grand old Notre Dame," said he.
"What's that?"
"Notre Dame."
"It's a big house."
"Yes; but you've seen it, of course."
"Never."
"What!" he exclaimed, in astonishment; "you, a little Parisienne, and
never saw Notre Dame?"
"You--you, monsieur, you have then seen everything in Paris?"
There was a vein of cold irony in the small voice.
"Er--w-well, not quite. Not quite, perhaps," he smilingly answered.
"No, nor I," she said.
"But Notre Dame----"
"What's Notre Dame to me? Nothing!"
A slight gesture of impatience.
"But----"
"What's it for?"
"Why, it's a church, petite."
"A church! And what's that to me?"
"Well, truly, I don't know, child. Nothing, I suppose."
"Nothing!"
She snapped her fingers contemptuously.
"Here is the Préfecture."
It was the Préfecture de Police and not Notre Dame that had to do with
little Fouchette and her kind. She knew what the Préfecture was,
though she now saw it for the first time. And she shivered in her wet
rags as the carriage turned into the great court-yard surrounded by
the immense stone quadrangle that fronts upon the quai.
A troop of the Garde de Paris was drilling at the upper end of the
court. Sentinels with gay uniforms and fixed bayonets solemnly paraded
at the three gate-ways.
"Come, petite," said the man, flinging open the carriage doors and
lifting the child in his arms to the ground. The dog leaped out after
her and looked uneasily up and down.
Half an hour later when Fouchette emerged with her conductor she had
undergone a transformation that would have rendered her
unrecognizable in Charenton. She had not only been washed and combed
and rubbed down, but had been arrayed in a frock of grayish material,
a chip hat with flowers in it, and shoes and stockings. She was so
excited over the grandeur of her personal appearance that she had
completely lost her bearings. It is true the hat was too old for a
child of her years, and the coarse new costume was several sizes too
large for her bony little frame, and the shoes were very embarrassing,
but to Fouchette they seemed the outfit of a "real lady."
She had entered the Préfecture sullenly, desperately, half expecting
to be sent to a lonely cell and perhaps loaded with chains,--she had
heard tell of such things,--and, instead, had been treated with
kindness by a gentle matron, her body washed and clothed, her stomach
made glad with rich soup and bread and milk, while Tartar was amply
provided for before her own eyes.
Fouchette was still in a daze when she found herself again in the
closed carriage, with Tartar at her feet, being whirled away at a pace
that seemed to threaten the lives of everybody in the streets. The
same man sat beside her, and an extra man had, at the last moment,
clambered up by the side of the driver.
This furious speed was continued for a long time, until Fouchette
began to wonder more and more where they were going. She could not
recognize anything en route, and the man was now serious and taciturn.
All at once she saw that they were approaching the barrier. Things
looked differently from a carriage window, and yet there was a
familiar air about the surroundings.
The man noticed her uneasiness and pulled down the blinds.
A terrible fear now seized her. Were they going to take her back to
the Podvins?
This fear increased as the speed of the vehicle lessened and as Tartar
began to move about impatiently. He was trying to get his nose under
the curtain.
"Hold him down!" said the man in a low voice. He was afraid to touch
the dog himself.
"Oh, monsieur!" she finally exclaimed, "we are not going to--to----"
"The Rendez-Vous pour Cochers, my little Fouchette," he put in, with a
smile.
"Oh, mon Dieu! Please, monsieur! Take me anywhere else,--back to the
Préfecture--to prison--anywhere but to this place! They'll kill me!
Oh, they'll kill me, monsieur!"
"Bah! No, they won't, little one. We'll take care of that."
"But----"
"Besides," he continued, reassuringly, "we're not going to leave you
there, so don't be afraid. Maybe you won't have to get out, or be seen
even, if you do as I tell you. Have no fear."
"Mon Dieu! monsieur does not know. They'll kill you, too!"
"No, they won't. And I know all about them, my child. There are four
of us, and---- Keep the dog down till I open the door."
The carriage had stopped.
"Stay right where you are," he whispered. "Let the dog out."
Tartar could not have been held in by both of them. He jumped to the
ground with joyous barks of recognition.
It was now ten o'clock, and the usual odors of a Parisian second
breakfast permeated the atmosphere of the cabaret.
Four or five rough-looking men were lounging about, gossiping over
their absinthe or apératif. Monsieur Podvin was already, at this early
hour in the day, on his second bottle of ordinaire. Opposite, as
usual, sat le Cochon.
Madame Podvin was busily burnishing up the zinc bar, and the vigorous
and spiteful way in which she did this betrayed the fact that she was
in bad temper. She was reserving an extra force of pent-up wrath
against the moment when that "lazy little beast Fouchette" should put
in an appearance.
Monsieur Podvin was also irritated, but not because of Fouchette's
prolonged absence. He was concerned about Tartar.
Le Cochon sympathized with both of them.
Among the various theories offered for these disappearances madame
thought that Fouchette was simply playing truant. The dog did not
bother her calculation, as he would not share the punishment.
Monsieur was certain that the girl had enticed the dog away from home;
though why she had taken her basket and hook if she were not coming
back he could not say.
Le Cochon took a gloomy view of it. He was afraid some accident had
befallen her,--she might have got run over by a fiacre, or have fallen
into the river.
"Nonsense!" protested M. Podvin. "The dog would come home. He wouldn't
get run over too, and you couldn't drown a spaniel."
It was precisely at this moment that the loud barking of Tartar broke
upon their ears, confirming his master's judgment and sending a thrill
through everybody in the room. This sensation, however, was by no
means the same.
The brute master alone rejoiced for pure love of the dog and for the
dog's sake.
Madame Podvin went in search of a certain stout strap used upon
Fouchette on special occasions of ceremonial penological procedure.
Two strange men seated at some distance from each other, and who up to
that moment had ignored each other's existence, exchanged looks of
intelligence and rose as if to leave the place.
Le Cochon alone seemed disconcerted. His beetle brows clouded, and his
right hand involuntarily sought the handle of his knife.
The instincts of the robber were this time unerring. For Tartar had
scarcely licked the dirty hand of his master, when his eyes fell upon
the would-be murderer of his beloved mistress. The sight appeared to
startle the animal at first. But only for a second. Then, with a growl
of rage that began low and ominously, like the first notes of a
thunder-storm, and swelled into a howl, the spaniel sprang upon the
villain and fastened his fangs in his fleshy throat.