"Là, là, là!" came the cheery but subdued voice of Sister Agnes. She
had re-entered the cell to catch the last faint sounds of childish
grief coming out of the darkness.
"There! Softly now, petite! Where are you? Oh! If they catch me here
at this hour and bringing--sh!"
The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchette
to a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the child
over in her arms.
Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at once
overcome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. She
flung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face in
the ample bosom.
"Là, là, là, là! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid of
here. Nothing at all! Don't take on so. God is everywhere, and takes
care of us in the night as well as by day. Fear not! And here, my
child, see what I've brought you! Feel, rather,--taste; you must be
half starved. Here is a big, fat sandwich, and here's another. And
here's a small flacon of the red wine of Bourgogne. You poor child!
You need something for blood. Here's a bit of cheese, too, and, let's
see,--by the blessed Sainte! I was told to let you have bread and
water and I've actually forgotten the water!
"Now eat! The idea of a big girl like you being afraid in the dark!"
"No, it was not that, madame. Mon Dieu, no! I'm used to that. Indeed,
I'm not afraid. It----"
"Then what on earth have you been crying about, child?"
"Oh, madame! it is because--because you are so good to me. Yes, that
is it. I'm not used to that,--no!"
Sister Agnes must have been quite agitated by this frank and
unexpected avowal, for she pressed the child to her with still greater
fervor, kissing her time and again more affectionately, after which
she immediately slipped into the religious rut again below the
crucifix.
A single ray of moonlight from the high loophole in the wall fell
athwart the sombre cell and rested caressingly upon her bowed head as
she knelt and seemed to bless her.
When she had recovered her self-possession she resumed her seat by the
side of Fouchette, who, meanwhile, had been making havoc with the
provisions.
"Oh! I was afraid--dreadfully afraid--that night, forty years ago,"
she whispered. "It was in this same place. And when they left me I
almost cried my eyes out--and screamed,--how I screamed! Yet no one
came. The next morning I had bread and water. And the next night and
day, too. Ah! Sainte Mère de Dieu! how I suffered!"
Fouchette shuddered.
"And I was a strong, healthy child, but wilful; yet the dark seemed
terrible to me--because I was wicked."
Fouchette wondered what dreadful crime this child of forty years ago
had committed to have been thus treated. She must have been very, very
wicked.
"Yes, forty years ago----"
"How much did they give you, madame?"
"Er--what's that, petite?"
"Pardon, madame, but how much time yet do you have to serve?"
"I don't understand," replied the puzzled woman, unfamiliar with
worldly terms.
"Why, I mean, how long did they send you up for?" asked the child.
"Send?--they?--who?"
"The police."
"Police? Mon Dieu! my child, the police had nothing to do with me."
"Well, the gendarmes."
"The gendarmes?"
"No; you could never have been guilty, madame! Never! Whatever it was
they charged you with----"
"Charged? Sainte Marie be praised, I never committed any crime in my
life,--unless it was a crime to be thoughtless and happy."
"I was sure of that!" cried Fouchette, much relieved nevertheless.
"Why, I never was charged with any!" protested the astonished Sister
Agnes.
"Then they imprisoned you without trial, as they have me. Ah! mon
Dieu! madame, I see it all now! And forty years! Oh!"
"Well, blessed be the saints in heaven!" exclaimed the enlightened
religieuse. "What do you think this place is, Fouchette?"
"It is"--she hesitated and changed the form of speech--"is it a--a
prison?"
"Why, no! Holy Mother, no!--not a prison, child! You thought it----"
"Yes, madame," faltered Fouchette.
"You poor child! Not so bad as that; yet----"
"I see,--a house of correction?"
"No, not that. At least, not--ah! if Sister Angélique had heard you
call 'Le Bon Pasteur' a house of correction it would have been worth
three days of bread and water!"
"'Le Bon Pasteur?'" repeated Fouchette.
"Yes, my child. Didn't you really know----"
"No, madame."
Sister Agnes pondered.
"Then why should you remain here?" pursued the curious child. "Can't
you go away if you want to?"
"But I do not wish to go now,--not now."
"But if you had wished it at any time."
Sister Agnes was silent.
"Then what is this place, madame?"
"A retreat for the poor,--an orphan asylum,--where little girls who
have neither father nor mother, and no home, are sent. And where they
are brought up to be good and industrious young women."
"D-don't they ever get out again?" asked Fouchette, somewhat
doubtfully.
"Oh, yes. They are set free at twenty-one years of age if they wish to
go, and even sooner if their friends come for them. If they don't wish
to go, they can remain and become members of the order, if they are
suitable. I was brought here at ten years of age by my aunt and left
temporarily, but my uncle died and she was too poor, or else did not
want me, so I was compelled to remain. When I became twenty-one I owed
the institution so much from failure to do my tasks and fines, and
what my aunt had promised to pay and didn't pay, that I had to stay a
long time and work it out, and by that time I had become so accustomed
to living here that I was afraid to leave the institution and begged
them to let me become one of the community.
"Sometimes girls are bad and so lazy they won't work, and then they
are punished. And when they prove incorrigible they are put in the
other building, which is a house of correction. But if a girl is good
and obedient and industrious she has no trouble, and may save up money
against the day when she is set at liberty, besides receives the good
recommendation of the Supérieure, on which she may find honest
employment."
While the good Sister Agnes spoke truly, she dared not tell this child
the whole truth.
She dared not say that Le Bon Pasteur,--The Good Shepherd,--although
ostensibly a charitable institution, under religious auspices and
subsidized by the State, for the protection and education of orphan
girls during their minority, was practically a great factory which did
not come under the legal restrictions governing free labor in France,
and where several hundred girls and young women, whose only offence
against society had been to lose their natural protectors, were
subjected to all the rigors of the most benighted penal institutions.
She dared not warn this poor little novice that her commitment to The
Good Shepherd was equivalent to a sentence of nine years at hard
labor; that good conduct and industry would not earn a day from that
term, but that bad conduct, neglect, or inability to perform allotted
tasks would result not only in severe punishments but an extension of
imprisonment indefinitely, at the pleasure of those who reaped the
financial reward from the product of the sweat of the orphans.
She dared not notify this frail waif that these tasks of the needle
were measured by the ability of the most expert, and that the majority
of girls were obliged to work overtime in order to accomplish them;
that to many this was an impossibility, and to some death.
She dared not add to her recital of the money that might be earned and
saved up against the day of liberty that comparatively few were able
to perform the extra work necessary; that fines and charges of all
kinds were resorted to in order to reduce such earnings to minimum;
and that at the close of her nine years of hard labor for Le Bon
Pasteur the most she could expect was to be thrust into the street in
the clothes she wore, without a cent, without a friend, without a
shelter.
She dared not more than hint at the terrible alternatives placed
before these young women from their long isolation from the world,--to
remain here prisoners for life, or to cast themselves into the
seething hell of Paris.
More than all, she dared not add that all of this was done in a
so-called republic, in the name of Civilization, to the glory of
modern Religion, in love of the Redeemer.
Fouchette would learn all of this quite soon enough through her own
observation and experience. Why needlessly embitter her present?
And this was well. Besides, the religieuse was ashamed to admit these
things, as she would have been afraid to deny them, being divided
between the vows of her order and her own private conscience.
Sister Agnes was a plain, honest woman of little sentiment, but this
little had been curiously awakened in her breast by the coincidence of
the time and place which had recalled minutely the circumstances of
her own entrance to the institution.
She had unconsciously adopted Fouchette from that moment. She mentally
resolved that she would keep an eye on this child. If it could be so
managed, Fouchette should come into her section. And, since the child
was ignorant and ambitious, she should receive whatever advantages of
instruction were to be had.
Quick to respond to this sympathy, Fouchette, on her part, mentally
resolved to deserve it. She would be good and obedient, so that the
sweet lady would love her and continue to kiss her. How could girls be
wicked if all the women of the community of Le Bon Pasteur were like
Sister Agnes?
And it would have been quite unnatural and unchildlike, owing to the
marked improvement in her condition, if Fouchette had not gone to
sleep forgetting her earlier disappointment.
* * * * *
Five years in such a place are as one year,--the same monotonous daily
grind in oblivion of the great world outside,--and need not be dwelt
upon here beyond a brief reference to its results upon Fouchette's
character, when we must hurry the reader on to more eventful scenes.
In this life of seclusion there were three saving features in
Fouchette's case. First, its worst conditions were very much better
than those under which she had formerly lived; second, she had been
torn from no family or friendly ties which might have weighed upon her
fancy; third, but not least, there was the love of Sister Agnes.
The petite chiffonnière's ideas of life had been cast in a lowly and
humble mould, so that from the beginning these new surroundings seemed
highly satisfactory, if not in many respects absolutely joyous. For
instance, the beds were prison beds, but they were clean and the
dormitories fairly well ventilated,--luxury to one who was accustomed
to sleep in a noisome cellar on filthy and envermined straw. The food
was coarse and frugal, but it was regular and almost prodigal to one
habituated to disputing her breakfast with vagrant dogs. The clothes
were coarse and cheap and often shabby, but to the child of rags they
were equivalent to royal gowns. The discipline was severe, but it was
unadulterated kindness by the side of the brutality of the Podvin.
The society of respectable young girls of her own age, and constant
contact with those who were older and of superior birth and breeding,
opened up a new world to Fouchette. That these companions were more
or less partakers of similar misfortunes engendered ready sympathies,
though the feeling of caste was as powerful among these orphans of the
State as in the Boulevard St. Germain. Tacitly acknowledging the lowly
origin of the rag-heap, Fouchette was content to fag, to go and come,
fetch and carry, and to patiently endure the multitude of petty
tyrannies put upon her. She accepted this position from the start as a
matter of course.
But it was chiefly in the daily intercourse with the cheerful,
ruddy-faced, and rather worldly as well as womanly Sister Agnes that
Fouchette found life worth living. It was Sister Agnes who patiently
instructed her in the mysteries of reading and writing and spelling
and the simple rudiments of language and figures. Sister Agnes
smoothed her young protégée's pathway through a sea of new
difficulties. Sister Agnes had secret struggles of her own, and had
worn away considerable stone before the image of the Virgin in the
course of her seclusion; though precisely what the nature of her
private troubles was must have been known to nobody else. Sister Agnes
was not a favorite with the Supérieure, apparently, since every time
she was called before that dreaded female functionary she seemed much
agitated and held longer conferences with the image of the Virgin in
the little bare chapel. Whatever her mental and moral disturbances,
however, Sister Agnes never faltered in her attention to Fouchette.
For the most part these were surreptitious, though to the recipient
there did not appear to be any reason for this concealment. As one
year followed another Fouchette saw more clearly, and it caused her
to redouble her exertions to please the good woman who risked the ill
will of her superiors to shower kindnesses upon the otherwise
friendless.
Five years to a girl of twelve brings considerable change physically
as well as otherwise. The change in Fouchette was really wonderful.
She remained still rather stunted and undersized at seventeen, though
face and figure had developed to her advantage. The hardness of the
first had not wholly disappeared, but it was much modified, while the
bones no longer showed through her dress. Her blonde hair had become
abundant, and, being of peculiar fineness and sheen, lent an
attractiveness to features that only a slightly tigerish fulness of
cheeks prevented from being almost classical. This feline expression
of jaws became more marked when she smiled, when a rather large mouth
displayed two rows of formidable teeth. The pussy-cat and monkey-faces
are too common among the French to be called peculiar.
Her hands and feet were small, her frail body and limbs straight and
supple as those of a young dancer. While she excelled at lively games
in the great playground under the trees, her complexion was extremely
delicate, even to paleness. Being naturally a clever imitator and
always desirous of the good opinion of Sister Agnes, Fouchette had
acquired graceful and lady-like manners that would have been
creditable to any fashionable pension of Paris. Continuous happiness
had left her light-hearted even to shallowness.
Fouchette latterly was not popular. She had been first a fag and
drudge, then had been withdrawn from the work-room to serve in the
kitchen; from scullery-maid she had been promoted to the chambers of
Sister Angélique, who was the stern right arm of the Supérieure; and,
finally, was transferred to the holy of holies of the Supérieure
herself.
All through her tractability and adaptability. She was quick to see
what was wanted, and lent herself energetically to the task of
performance. The good sisters encouraged her. Especially in bringing
to them any stray ideas she had picked up among her companions. Sister
Angélique, severe to fanaticism in all the forms of religion, early
impressed upon the child the importance and imperative duty of the
truth. It was not only a service to the community, but a service to
the Church and to God for her to keep her superiors posted as to what
was going on among the inmates of the institution.
It was a very trivial thing at first, then more trivial things,--mere
gossip of children. Then her information resulted in the cell and
paddle for the unfortunate and began to be talked about on the
playground and in the work-room. When she heard what had happened,
Fouchette was conscience-stricken and ran to Sister Agnes for
consolation. The latter was so confused and contradictory in her
definition of right and wrong, as to how far one might go for Christ's
sake, that Fouchette was left in doubt. And when Sister Angélique
asked her for the name of the girl who committed an offence in the
dormitory, Fouchette hesitated and wanted to consult Sister Agnes.
The result was that Sister Agnes was called before the Supérieure, and
was compelled to instruct Fouchette that whatever was required of her
by those in authority was right and should be done. It is a doctrine
as universal as the Christian religion.
So Fouchette told, and the tale brought to the offender five days'
diet of bread and water in a cell.
As a tale-bearer who was not afraid to tell the truth Fouchette had in
the course of time ingratiated herself into the favor of Sister
Angélique, and finally, as has been shown by her transfer to the
governing regions, became the factotum of the Supérieure. These
services carried privileges.
They also brought unpopularity. On the playground Fouchette began to
be avoided. In the work-room voices suddenly became hushed as she
passed. In the dormitory she began to experience coldness and hostile
demonstrations.
Yet up to the present she had been suspected only. When the growing
suspicion became a certainty she was assaulted in the dormitory in the
presence of a matron. The biggest and stoutest girl of the section
pulled her from her bed in the dark and began to beat her. There was
no outcry at first,--only a silent struggle on the floor.
But the stout young woman had counted too much on her physical
strength and upon the supposed weakness of her frail antagonist. For
Fouchette was like a cat in another respect,--she fought best on her
back, where she was all hands and feet and teeth. Before the fat
matron could find them between the beds the big girl was yelling for
mercy and the whole section of a hundred girls was in an uproar.
"Help! help!" screamed the girl. "She's murdering me!"
"Who? Where?"
"Silence!"
"Quick! Help! She's killing me! Fouchette! It's Mademoiselle
Fouchette!"
The matron was thus guided to Fouchette's bed, where she found the
latter tearing the big girl's ear with her teeth, and with her hands
clawing the big girl's face.
To this moment Fouchette had not uttered a word. Then she let flow a
torrent of language such as had never before been heard within the
sacred precincts of Le Bon Pasteur. She could no more be stopped than
an avalanche.
The girls of the dormitory closed their ears in their fright at this
flood of profanity.
"Stop! stop! stop!" cried the matron, now overcome with horror. "You
belong in the Reformatory! You shall go to the Reformatory! You shall
have the bath and the paddle, you vile vixen!"
And Fouchette's vocabulary having been exhausted for the time being,
she ceased.
Meanwhile, a light was brought, and attendants came running in from
the other parts of the building.
Notwithstanding the confused explanation, and the fact that the
aggressor's bed was at some distance from the spot where the two were
discovered, which sustained the charge of Fouchette that the latter
had been first attacked, the terrible condition of the big girl was
such that Fouchette was sent to a cell and held in close confinement
till the next evening.
She was then taken to Sister Angélique, where she was examined as to
her version of the occurrence. The victim of her nails and teeth also
had a hearing.
Between the two, and considering all the circumstances, Sister
Angélique came to the proper conclusion, and so reported the case to
the Supérieure.
The latter had Fouchette brought before her. She was a very flabby and
masculine woman, of great brains and keen penetration, and invariably
had an oleaginous Jesuit priest at her elbow on important occasions to
strengthen her religious standing and to give her decisions the force
and effect of ecclesiastical law.
"Father Sébastien," said the Supérieure, "this is a grievous case.
What are we to do with these girls that fight like tigers,--that set
the whole blessed institution of Le Bon Pasteur by the ears?"
The Jesuit rubbed his hands, eying the slender figure before them
curiously.
"A sad case,--a very sad case," he muttered; "and yet----"
"Mademoiselle Fouchette has been of good service to us, and----"
"And has invited this attack by her friendliness for the institution.
No doubt,--no doubt at all," said the priest.
"But it is necessary to punish somebody," persisted the Supérieure,
"else we shall lose control of these hot-heads."
"How about the other one? Mademoiselle----"
"Mademoiselle Angot----"
"Yes."
"She's pretty well punished as it is. She looks as if she had been
through a threshing-machine. How such a chit could----"
Father Sébastien laughed, in his low, gurgling way, and rubbed his
hands some more, still eying Fouchette.
"She's been a good girl for five years, you say?"
"Yes, Father; we could not complain."
"Five years is a very long time to--to--for a girl like her to be
good. Is it not so?"
"Truly."
"And yet they say her language was dreadfully--er--ah--improper."
"If you were pulled out of bed in the night and beaten because you
spoke the truth to the Supérieure," broke in Fouchette at this point,
"you'd probably use bad language too!"
"Chut! child," said the Supérieure, smiling in spite of herself.
"Oh! me?"
"Là, là! Father." The Supérieure now laughed.
"Quite possibly," he added,--"quite possibly. But in a demoiselle like
you----"
"I'm afraid to send her back to the dormitory. Are you afraid to go
back there, Fouchette?"
"No, madame," replied Fouchette.
"I think they'll leave her alone after this," said the priest.
"They'd better," said Fouchette.
"Oho!"
"But you must not quarrel, my dear,--remember that. And if they--well,
you come to me or to Sister----"
"Sister Agnes, yes----"
"No, no; Sister Angélique," interrupted the Supérieure, tartly.
"Sister Agnes has nothing to do with you hereafter."
"Wh-at? But Sister Agnes----"
"Now don't stand there and argue. I repeat that Sister Agnes is to
have nothing to do with you hereafter. Sister Agnes has gone----"
"Gone!"
It was the worst blow--the only blow she had received in these five
years. Her swollen lips quivered.
"I say Sister Agnes has gone. You will never see her again. And it's a
good riddance! I never could bear that woman!"
"Oh, madame! madame!"
Fouchette sank to her knees appealingly.
"Get up!"
"Oh, madame!"
"Get up! Not another word!"
"But, madame!"
"There, my child," put in the priest. "You hear?"
"But Sister Agnes was my only friend here. Where has she gone? Tell me
why she has gone. Oh, mon Dieu! Gone! and left me here without a word!
Oh! oh! madame!"
"She's gone because I sent her,--because it is her sworn duty to
obey,--to go where she is sent. Where and why is none of her business,
much less yours. Now let us hear no more from you on that point, or
you will forfeit the leniency I was about to extend to you. Go!"
"But, madame," supplicated Fouchette, "hear me! Sister Agnes----"
The Supérieure was now furious. She rang a little bell, waving Father
Sébastien aside. Two sisters appeared,--her personal attendants, well
known to those who had suffered punishment.
"Give this girl the douche!"
"Madame!" screamed Fouchette.
"Give her the douche--for fighting in the dormitory. In the refectory.
Assemble everybody! And if she resists let her have the paddle. If
that doesn't bring her to her senses, give her five days on bread and
water. I'll take that rebellious spirit out of her or----"
The two women hustled the trembling Fouchette away from the Presence.
Fouchette knew the disgrace of the douche. She had seen grown young
women stripped stark naked before five hundred girls and have a bucket
of ice-cold water thrown over them. One of them had been ill and was
unable to do her work. She had died from the effects.
Fouchette understood the terrible significance of the paddle. A girl
was stripped and strung up by the wrists to a door and was beaten with
a heavy leather strap soaked in brine until the blood ran down her
thighs.
Fouchette comprehended the character of the five days on bread and
water, wherein the victim was forced to remain in her own filth for
five days with nothing to eat but a half-loaf of stale bread and a
small pitcher of water per twenty-four hours.
Yet, dreadful as was this immediate prospect, and as cruel as was the
injustice meted out to her, Fouchette thought only of Sister Agnes.
She would have gone to punishment like a Stoic of old could somebody
have assured her that what she had just heard was false and that
Sister Agnes was yet in the institution. Everything else and all
together seemed dwarfed by the side of this one great overwhelming
calamity.
"How could you have so angered Madame?" said one of her
conductors,--both of whom were aware that she was to be unjustly
punished.
"Be good, now, Fouchette," whispered the other; "besides, it is
nothing,--a little water,--bah!"
They were leading her along a dark corridor, the same through which
she had been taken five years before. It rushed over her now,--dear
Sister Agnes!
"I only wanted to know about Sister Agnes," protested Fouchette.
Her conductors stopped short.
"S-sh! Mademoiselle did not know that----"
"That what?"
"Better tell her, sister," encouraged the other woman.
"That Sister Agnes was--was suspected of being a creature of the
Secret Police?"
"N-no, madame," faltered the girl,--"I don't understand. And if----"
"And we are for the restoration----"
"The restoration----"
"Of the throne of France."
"Is it Inspector Loup?" asked Fouchette, suddenly recalling that
personage.
"Inspector Loup,--it is he who is responsible for the withdrawal of
Sister Agnes, mademoiselle."
"Paris,--I will go to Paris!" said Fouchette, brightening up all at
once.
To the two who heard her it was as if Fouchette had said, "I will go
to the moon."
She slipped from between them and darted down the corridor. Before
they had recovered from their astonishment she was out of the building
and out of sight.
Nothing could have been more absurd.
But one girl had succeeded in scaling the high walls that surrounded
the establishment of Le Bon Pasteur, and she had been pursued by
savage dogs kept for such exigencies and brought back in mere shreds
of clothing, with her flesh terribly lacerated. Even once outside, if
the feat were possible and the dogs avoided, how was a bareheaded girl
without a sou to get to Paris, three hundred kilometres? And, that
surmounted, what would become of her in Paris?
It was absurd. It was impossible.
Meanwhile, Fouchette evaded the now lighted buildings in the rear and
was skirting the high walls towards the north with the fleetness of a
young deer.
The grounds of Le Bon Pasteur embraced about ten acres, a well-wooded
section of an ancient park, the buildings, old and new, being on the
side next to the town. By day one might easily see from wall to wall,
the lowest branches of the trees being well clear of the ground, the
latter being trampled grassless, hard, and smooth by thousands of
youthful feet.
It was now growing too dark to see more than a few yards. This did
not prevent Fouchette from making good speed. She knew every inch of
the park. And as she ran her thoughts kept on well ahead.
She had started with the definite idea of leaving the place, but
without the slightest idea of how that was to be accomplished. Like a
frightened rabbit running an enclosure, she sought in vain for some
unheard-of opening,--some breach in the wall, some projections by
which she might scale the frowning barrier.
Now and then she paused to listen intently. There were no pursuers,
apparently. Her heart sank rather than rose at the thought; for it
implied that the chances of her escape were not considered worth an
energetic effort,--that she must inevitably return of her own accord.
Fouchette was mistaken. It was only that the pursuers were not so sure
of their route and were not so fleet of foot. They had called in
re-enforcements and were approaching in extended order beneath the
trees, with the moral certainty of rounding her up.
As soon as Fouchette realized this she felt that she was lost. There
was no place to hide from such a search,--then they could let loose
the dogs!
With a fresh energy born of desperation she sprang at the
chestnut-tree in front of her and began to shin up the rough trunk,
boy fashion. Like most generalizations, the statement that a woman
cannot climb a tree is not an axiomatic truth. It depends wholly upon
the woman and the occasion. Fouchette had often amused her playmates
by going up trees, and was considered a valuable addition to any party
of chestnut hunters. So in this instance the woman and the occasion
met. She was securely perched in the foliage when the scouting party
went by. One sister walked directly beneath the tree.
"We ought to have brought the dogs," she muttered.
Fouchette was breathless.
Immediate danger past, she began to think of what she should do next.
She could not remain up there forever; and if she came down she would
be just where she was before,--would probably be run down by the dogs.
Presently she saw a light glimmering through the trees. Cautiously
pushing the leaves aside, she saw it more distinctly. It was bobbing
up and down. It was a lantern. It was coming towards her. Being a
lantern, it must be carried by somebody, and that this somebody was in
search of her she had no doubt. All the world was out after her.
The lantern came closer. And then she saw the barbed iron wall
immediately below her, between her and the lantern. It was outside,
then; and the tree she was in seemed to overhang the wall.
A desperate hope arose within her,--scarcely a hope yet,--rather a
vague fancy. They could not have spread the alarm outside so
quickly,--the lantern and its bearer could have no reference to her
escape.
It was now almost immediately beneath her, and she saw that it was
borne by a stalwart young man. It was a chance,--a mere chance,--but
she at once resolved to risk it.
"S-sh!"
The bearer of the lantern stopped, raised it high, and peered about in
every direction.
"S-sh!" repeated Fouchette.
"S-sh yourself!" said the young man, evidently suspecting some trick.
"Not so loud if you please, monsieur."
"Not so--but where the devil are you, anyhow?" He had looked in every
direction except the right one.
"Here," whispered Fouchette. "Up in the tree."
"Tonnerre! And what are you doing up there in the tree, mademoiselle?"
he inquired with astonishment, elevating his lantern so as to get a
glimpse of the owner of the voice.
"Nothing," said Fouchette.
"Well, if this don't--say, mademoiselle."
"Please don't talk so loud, monsieur. They will hear you, and I will
be lost."
"Indeed! So you're running away, eh?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What for?"
"Because they are going to give me the douche, the paddle, and
prison."
"The wretches!" whispered the young man through his half-set teeth.
"Then you'll help me, monsieur?" asked Fouchette, in a tone of
entreaty.
"That I will," said he, promptly, "if I can. If you could swing
yourself over the wall, now; but, dame! no girl can do that," he added
half to himself.
"I'll try it," said Fouchette.
"Don't do it, mademoiselle; you'll break your neck."
For answer to this, Fouchette, who had been working her dangerous way
out on the uncertain branches, holding tenaciously to those above, so
as to wisely distribute her weight, only said,--
"Look out, now!"
There was no time to parley,--it was her only hope,--and if she fell
inside the wall----
A splash among the leaves and a violent reversal of branches relieved
of her weight and--and a ripping sound.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" she gasped.
She had swung clear, but her skirts had caught the iron spikes as she
came down and now held her firmly, head downward,--a very embarrassing
predicament.
"Put out the light, monsieur, please!"
He gallantly closed the slide and sprang to her assistance.
"Don't be afraid, mademoiselle. Let go,--I'll catch you. Let go!"
"Oh, but I----"
"Let go!"
"Sacré bleu! I can't, monsieur! I'm stuck like a fish on a gaff! My
skirts----"
This startling intelligence, while it relieved his immediate anxiety,
involved the young man in a painful quandary. He dared not call for
help; he was likely to be arrested in any case; he could not go away
and leave the girl dangling there. She was at least three feet beyond
his extreme reach.
"Let's see," he said, hastily grabbing his lantern to make an
examination.
"Oh, put out that light!" exclaimed the girl.
"But, mademoiselle, I can't see----"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I don't wish you to see! No! I should--put down
the lantern!"
Having complied with this request, he stood under her in despair.
"Can't you tear the--the--what-you-may-call-it loose?"
"No; it's my skirt,--my dress,--I'm slipping out of it. Look out,
monsieur, for--I'm--coming--oh!"
And come she did, head first, minus the dress skirt, plump into the
startled young man's arms.