"Me voilà!" said Fouchette, gaining her feet and lightly shaking her
ruffled remains together, as if she were a young pullet that had
calmly fluttered down from the roost.
"Well, you're a bird!" he ejaculated, the more embarrassed of the two.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, but for you I'd soon have been a dead bird! I
thank you ever so much."
She reached up at him and succeeded in pecking a little kiss on his
chin. It was her first attempt at the masculine mouth and she could
scarcely be censured if she missed it.
"It certainly was a lucky chance that I came this way at the moment,"
he said.
"It was, indeed," she assented.
He was surveying her now by the light of his lantern; and he smiled at
her slight figure in the short petticoat. Her blind confidence in him
and her general assurance amused him.
"Where were you thinking of going, mademoiselle?"
"To Paris."
"Paris!"
The young man almost dropped his lantern. Paris seemed out of reach to
him.
"And why not, monsieur?"
"Er--well, mademoiselle, climbing a tree and throwing one's self head
over heels over a wall--er--and----"
"And leaving ones skirt hanging on the spikes----"
"Yes,--is not the customary way for young ladies to start for Paris.
But I suppose you know what you are about."
"If I only had my skirt."
Fouchette glanced up at the offending member of her attire which she
had cast from her.
"Never mind that,--I'll return and get it. Come with me, mademoiselle.
I live near by, and my mother and sisters will protect you for the
time being. Come! Where's your hat?"
"I didn't have time----"
"You didn't stop to pack your bundle, eh?"
"Not exactly, monsieur."
They walked along silently for a few yards, following the wall.
"You have relatives in Paris, mademoiselle?" he finally asked.
"No, monsieur."
"Friends, then?"
"Well, yes."
"It is good. Paris is no place for a young girl alone. Besides, it is
just now a scene of riot and bloodshed. It is in a state bordering on
revolution. All France is roused. Royalists and Bonapartists have
combined against the life of the republic. Paris is swarming with
troops. There will be barricades and fighting in the streets,
mademoiselle."
Fouchette recalled the fragments of conversations
overheard,--conversations between the Supérieure and Father Sébastien
and certain visitors. Beyond this casual information she knew
absolutely nothing of what was going on in the outer world. He
misconstrued her silence.
"Whom do you know in Paris, mademoiselle?--somebody powerful enough to
protect you?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur," she promptly answered. "I know one man,--one who
sent me here,--who is powerful----"
"May I ask----"
"The Chief of the Secret Police," she said, lowering her tone to a
confidential scale,--"Inspector Loup."
"Oh, pardon, mademoiselle!" quickly responded the young man. "Pardon!
I meant it for your welfare, not to inquire into your business. Oh,
no; do not think me capable of that!"
He appeared to be somewhat frightened at what he had done, but became
reassured when she passed it with easy good nature.
"It is important, then, mademoiselle, that you reach Paris at once?"
"It is very important, monsieur."
"The royalist scoundrels are very active," he said. "They must be
headed off--exposed!"
He spoke enthusiastically, seizing Fouchette's hand warmly. That
demoiselle, who was floundering around in a position she did not
understand, walked along resolved to keep her peace. He assured her
that she might fully rely upon him and his in this emergency. Let her
put him to the test.
The enigmatical situation was more confounding to Fouchette when she
was being overwhelmed with the subservient attentions of the young
man's family; but the less she comprehended the more she held her
tongue. They were of the class moderately well-to-do and steeped in
politics up to the neck.
Fouchette knew next to nothing about politics. Only that France was a
republic and that many were dissatisfied with that form of government;
that some wanted the empire, and others the restoration of the kings,
and still others anything but existing things. Having never been
called upon to form an opinion, Fouchette had no opinion on the
subject. She did not care a snap what kind of a government ruled,--it
could make no difference to her.
Coming in contact with all of this enthusiasm, she now knew that Le
Bon Pasteur was royalist for some reason; and she shrewdly guessed,
without the assistance of this family conviction, that all Jesuits,
whatever they might otherwise be, were also royalists. And, as
Inspector Loup was a part of the existing government, he must be a
republican,--which was not so shrewd as it was logical; therefore that
if Sister Agnes was suspected of being friendly to Inspector Loup, the
good sister was a republican and naturally the political enemy of the
managers of Le Bon Pasteur. Whatever Sister Agnes was it must be
right.
But in holding her tongue Fouchette was most clever of all,--whereas,
usually, the less people know about government the more persistently
they talk politics.
The young man went back to the wall with a fish-pole and rescued the
recalcitrant skirt, much to her delight. His mother mended the rents
in it and his sisters fitted her out with a smart hat.
It was soon developed that Fouchette had no money. This brought about
a family consultation.
"I must go to Paris," said Fouchette, determinedly, "if I have to
walk!"
"Nonsense!" said the young man.
"Nonsense!" chimed in mother and sisters.
"I'll fix you all right," finally declared the young man, "on a single
condition,--that you carry a letter from me to Inspector Loup and
deliver it into his own hands, mademoiselle. Is it a bargain?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur,--very sure!" cried the girl, almost overcome by
this last good fortune. "You are very good,--it would be a pleasure,
monsieur, I assure you."
"And if you were to tell him the part I have taken to-night in your
case it would be of great service,--if you would be so good,
mademoiselle. Not that it is anything, but----"
"You may be assured of that, too," said Fouchette, who, however, did
not understand what possible interest lay in this direction.
They were all so effusive and apparently grateful that she was made to
believe herself a very important personage.
As the letter was brought out immediately, she saw that it was already
prepared, and wondered why it was not sent by post.
Another family consultation, and it was decided that Fouchette might
lose the letter by some accident; so, on the suggestion of the mother,
it was carefully sewn in the bosom of their emissary's dress.
It was also suggested that, since an effort for Fouchette's recapture
might include the careful scrutiny of the trains for Paris the next
day, she should be accompanied at once to a suburban town where she
could take the midnight express.
All of these details were not settled without considerable discussion,
in which Fouchette came to the private conclusion that they were even
more anxious for her to get to Paris than she was herself, if such a
thing were possible.
* * * * *
Fouchette arrived in Paris and alighted at the Gare de l'Est at a very
early hour in the morning. Her idea had been to go direct to the
Préfecture and demand the whereabouts of Sister Agnes. Incidentally
she would deliver the mysterious letter intrusted to her.
But during her journey Fouchette had enjoyed ample time for
reflection. She was not absolutely certain of her reception at the
hands of Inspector Loup; could not satisfy her own mind that he would
receive her at all. Besides, would he really know anything about
Sister Agnes?
Fouchette's self-confidence had been oozing away in the same ratio as
she was nearing her journey's end. When she had finally arrived she
was almost frightened at the notion of meeting Inspector Loup. He had
threatened her with prison. He might regard her now as an escaped
convict. On the whole, Fouchette was really sorry she had run away.
Back again in Paris, where she had suffered so much, she realized
again that there were worse places for a girl than Le Bon Pasteur.
Anyhow, it was early,--there was plenty of time,--she would consider.
She took the tramway of the Boulevards Strausbourg and Sébastopol,
climbing to the imperial, where a seat was to be had for three sous.
What crowds of people!
She was surprised to see the great human flood pouring down the
boulevards and side streets at such an early hour in the morning. But
her volatile nature rose to the touch of excitement. She at once
forgot everything else but the street. Fouchette was a true
Parisienne.
"Paris!" she murmured; "dear Paris!"
As if Paris had blessed her childhood with pleasure, instead of having
starved and beaten her and degraded her to the level of beasts!
"Where on earth are all of these people going?" she asked herself.
There were now and then cries of "Vive l'armée!" "Vive la république!"
and "Vive la France!" while the excitement seemed to grow as they
reached the Porte St. Denis.
"What is it, monsieur?" she finally asked the man at her side.
"It is the 25th of October," said he.
"But, monsieur, what is the matter?"
He looked over his shoulder at the young girl rather resentfully,
though his doubts as to her sincerity vanished in a smile.
"It is the rentrée of the Chambers," he answered.
"Oh," she said, "is that it?"
But she knew no more now than she had known before. Presently her
curiosity again got the better of her timidity.
"Where are they going, monsieur?"
"They don't know, mademoiselle. Palais Bourbon, Place de la
Concorde,--anywhere it happens to be lively enough to suit. But where
have you been, mademoiselle, to not know,--in the country?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And where are you going?"
"Place de la Concorde."
"Don't do it, little one,--don't you do it! It is not a place for a
mite like you on such a day. Take my advice,--go anywhere else."
"I'm going to the Place de la Concorde, monsieur," she responded,
quite stiffly.
When she reached the great plaza, however, she found it practically
deserted. The usual throngs of carriages were passing to and fro.
Immense black crowds blocked the Rue Royale at the Madeleine and in
the opposite direction in the vicinity of the Palais Bourbon across
the river. These crowds appeared to be held at bay by the cordons of
police agents, who kept the Place de la Concorde clear and pedestrians
moving lively in the intersecting streets.
Fouchette hopped nimbly off the steps of the omnibus she had taken at
le Châtelet, to the amusement of a gang of hilarious students from the
Latin Quarter, who recognized in her the "tenderfoot."
The Parisienne always leaves the omnibus steps with her back to the
horses. This keeps American visitors standing around looking for a
mishap which never happens; for the Parisienne is an expert
equilibrist and can perform this feat while the vehicle is at full
speed, not only with safety but with an airy grace that is often
charming.
But Fouchette did not mind the laughter; she had found a good place
from which to view whatever was to be seen. She did not have to wait
long.
"À bas le sabre!" shouted a man.
"À bas les traitres!" yelled the students in unison.
One of the latter leaped at the man and felled him with a blow.
The frantic crowd of young men attempted to jump upon this victim of
public opinion, but as others rushed at the same time to his rescue,
all came together in a tumultuous, struggling heap.
The angry combatants surged this way and that,--the score soon became
an hundred, the hundred became a thousand. It was a mystery whence
these turbulent elements sprang, so quickly did the mob gather
strength.
The original offender got away in the confusion. But the struggle went
on, accompanied by shouts, curses, and groans. One platoon of police
agents charged down upon the fighters, then another platoon.
Friends struck friends in sheer excess of fury. The momentarily
swelling roar of the combat reverberated in the Rue Royale and echoed
and re-echoed from the garden of the Tuileries.
The police agents struggled in vain. They were unable to penetrate
beyond the outer rows of the mob. And these turned and savagely
assaulted the agents.
Then the massive grilles of the Tuileries swung upon their hinges and
a squadron of cuirassiers slowly trotted into the Place de la
Concorde. They swept gracefully into line. A harsh, rasping sound of
steel, a rattle of breastplates as the sabres twinkled in the
sunshine, and the column moved down upon the snarling horde of human
tigers.
Brave when it was a single unarmed man, the mob broke and ran like
frightened sheep at the sight of the advancing cavalry.
In the mean time myriads of omnibuses, vans, carriages, and vehicles
of all descriptions, having been blocked by a similar mob in the
narrow Rue Royale and at the Pont de la Concorde in the other
direction, now became tangled in an apparently inextricable mass in
the middle square.
The individual members of the crowd broke for this cover, while the
agents dashed among them to make arrests. Men scrambled under
omnibuses and wagons, leaped through carriages, dodged between wheels,
climbed over horses, crept on their hands and knees beneath vans.
Fouchette ran like a rabbit, but between the rush of police and
scattering of the mob she was sorely hustled. She finally sprang into
an open voiture in the jam, and wisely remained there in spite of the
driver's furious gesticulations.
"This way!" cried a stalwart young student to his fleeing companions.
The agents were hot upon them.
Fouchette saw that they were covered with dirt, and one was hatless.
And this one glared at her as he dodged beneath the horse.
The next vehicle was pulled up short, as if to close the narrow
passage, whereat the hatless man shook his fist at the driver and
cursed him.
"Vive la liberté!" retorted the driver.
"So! We'll give you liberty, you cur!" and the hatless man called to
his nearest companion, "Over with him!"
The two seized the light vehicle and overturned it as if it were an
empty basket. The driver pitched forward, sprawling, to the asphalt.
Seeing which the wary driver of the voiture in which Fouchette was
seated turned and called to her behind his hand,--
"Keep your seat, mademoiselle! It's all right!"
He was terrified lest his carriage should follow the fate of his
neighbor's. But the young men merely compelled him to whip up and keep
the lines closed, and with this moving barricade they trotted along
secure from present assault. Fouchette could have touched the nearest
student. She was so frightened that the coachman's admonition was
quite unnecessary. She could not have stirred.
"Jean!" said the hatless man to the other, who was so close, "you saw
Lerouge there?"
"See him! I was near enough to punch him!"
"Did you----"
"Ah!" There was a quaver in his voice.
"I understand, my friend."
"But I can't understand Lerouge," said the young man called Jean.
"Don't be afraid, mademoiselle," he added, speaking to Fouchette
reassuringly. "Our friends the agents----"
"Oh, there they come, monsieur!" she cried.
"Pardieu!" exclaimed the hatless. "We're caught!"
A big van loaded with straw blocked the way. Behind it skulked a whole
platoon of blue uniforms. The fugitives hesitated for a second or
two.
"Over with it!" shouted the hatless young man, at the same moment
appropriating a deserted headpiece.
"Down with the agents!"
A dozen stalwart young men seized the big wheels. The top-heavy load
wavered an instant, then went over with a simultaneous swish and a
yell.
The latter came from the police agents, now half buried in the straw.
A second squadron of cavalry, Garde de Paris, drawn up near by,
witnessed this incident and smiled. These little pleasantries amuse
all good Parisians.
Safety now lay in separation. Jean kept on towards the Rue Royale; his
friends broke off, scattering towards the Rue de Rivoli.
"Que diable!" he muttered.
He stopped and looked hastily about him.
"Well, devil take her anyhow,--she's gone. And I'm here."
He saw himself, with many others out of the line of blocked vehicles,
hemmed in by agents, Gardes de Paris, and cuirassiers to the right and
left, now driven into the Rue Royale as stray animals into a pound.
Double lines of police agents supported by infantry and cavalry held
both ends of this short street; here, where it opened into the Place
de la Concorde and there where it led at the Madeleine into the grand
boulevards.
The roar of the mob came down upon him from the Madeleine, where the
rioters had forced the defensive line from time to time only to be
driven back by the fists and feet of the police agents and with the
flat of the cavalry sabre.
The authorities knew their ground. The Rue Royale was the key to the
military position.
But in the attempt to clear the Place de la Concorde the nearest
fugitives were thrust into the Rue Royale and driven by horse and foot
towards the Madeleine, where they were mercilessly kicked outside the
lines to shift for themselves, an unwilling part of a frenzied mob.
"I'm a rat in a trap here," growled the young man, having been
literally thrown through the lower cordon by two stalwart agents.
The shopkeepers had put up their heavy shutters. The grilles were
closed. People looked down from window and balcony upon a street
sealed as tight as wax.
Having witnessed the infantry reserves ambushed behind the Ministry of
Marine filling their magazines, and being confronted by a fresh émeute
above, Jean Marot began to feel queer for the first time of a day of
brawls.
He recalled the historical fact that here in this narrow street a
thousand people were slain in a panic on the occasion of the
celebration of the marriage of Marie Antoinette.
A horseman with drawn sabre rode at him and ordered him to move on
more quickly.
"But where to, Monsieur le Caporal?"
"Anywhere, mon enfant! Out of this, now! Circulate!"
"But----"
"There is no 'but!' What business have you here? You are not a
Deputy!" The man urged him with his sabre.
"Hold, Monsieur le Caporal! Has, then, a citizen of Paris no longer
any right to go home without insult from the uniform?"
"Where do you live, monsieur?"
"Just around the corner in the Faubourg St. Honoré," replied the young
man.
"Ah!" growled the cavalryman, doubtfully, "and there is another
route."
All of this time the soldier's horse, trained by much service of this
sort during the preceding year, was pushing Jean along of his own
accord,--now with his breast, now with his impatient nose,--to the
considerable sacrifice of that young man's dignity. The latter edged
up to the wall, but the horse followed him, shoving him along gently
but firmly under a loose rein.
Jean flattened himself against a doorway to escape the pressure. But
the horse paused also and leaned against him.
"Oh, say, then!"
"Hello! Here they come again!" exclaimed the corporal, reining in his
horse, with his eyes bent towards the Madeleine.
At this juncture the door was suddenly opened and Jean, who was fast
having the breath squeezed out of him, fell inside.
The door was as suddenly closed again and barred.
The cavalryman, who had not seen this movement, glanced around on
either side, behind, then beneath his horse, finally up in the sky,
and shrugged his shoulders and rode on along the walk.
"Oho, Monsieur Jean!" roared a friendly voice as the young man caught
his breath; "trying to break into my house, eh? By my saint, young
man, you were in a mighty tight place! Oh, this dreadful day! No
business at all, and----"
"Business!" gasped Jean,--"business, man! Never had a more busy day in
my life!"
"You? Yes! it is such wild young blades as you and that
serious-looking Lerouge who raise all the row in Paris.--I say,
monsieur," broke off the garrulous old restaurateur, and, running to
the window behind the bar, "they're putting the sand!"
Men with barrows from the Ministry of Marine were hastily strewing the
smooth asphalt with sand. It meant cavalry operations.
"But, Monsieur Jean, where's your double? Where's the other Marot
to-day?"
Jean's face clouded. He did not reply.
"I never saw two men look so much alike," continued the restaurateur.
"So the medics all say, and that I do all the deviltry and Henri gets
sent to dépôt for it." He had called for something to eat, and looked
up from the distant table in continuation,--
"Lerouge has turned out to be the most rabid Dreyfusarde. We met in
the fun to-day----"
"Fun!"
"There certainly was fun for a while. George Villeroy, when I last saw
him, was being chased to the Rue de Rivoli. Hope he gets back this
evening at Le Petit Rouge."
"Le Petit Rouge! Faugh! Nest of red republicans, royalists----"
"No royalists----"
"Anarchists----"
"Yes, I'll admit that----"
"And bloody bones----"
"Bloody noses to-day, monsieur."
"And this Lerouge and you?"
"Yes, this is George's night to carve," said Jean, changing the
subject back to surgery.
"Carve?"
"Yes,--certes! Cut into something fresh, if it turns up."
"Turns up?"
"Why, Monsieur Bibbôlet, you're as clever as a parrot! Yes, turns up.
Subject, stiff, cadaver,--see?--Le café, garçon!"
"Ah! you medical----"
"You see, George has a new arterial theory to demonstrate. I tell you,
he can pick up an artery as easily as your cook can pick a chicken. If
you'd care to let him try----"
"How! Pick up my arteries? Not if I----"
"What's that?"
They again ran to the window.
"It's the cuirassiers, Monsieur Jean! Ah! if it came to blows they'd
pot 'em like rabbits here! You're out of it just in time."
So closely was the squadron of cuirassiers wedged in the street that
Jean could have put his hand upon the jack-boots of the nearest
soldier. There had been a fresh break in the Madeleine guard, and this
was the reserve. They slowly pricked their resistless way, and one by
one the exhausted agents slipped between them to the rear. Some of the
latter dragged prisoners, some supported bruised and bleeding victims.
Some persons had been trampled or beaten into insensibility, and these
were being carried towards the Place de la Concorde. Among them were
women. There are always women in the Paris mob.
And this particular mob was a mere political "manifestation." That was
all. It was the 25th of October, 1898, and the day on which the French
Parliament met. So the Parisian patriots lined the route to the Palais
Bourbon and "manifested" their devotion to liberty French fashion, by
clubbing everybody who disagreed with them.
"Well!" said Jean, "they have pushed beyond St. Honoré. I can get home
now."
"Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle of
old Barsac with me."
* * * * *
Night had fallen. Jean Marot was cautiously let out of a side door.
The Ministry had also fallen.
Hoarse-lunged venders of the evening papers announced the fact in
continuous cries. Travel had been resumed in the Rue Royale. Here and
there the shops began to take in their shutters and resume business.
Timid shopkeepers came out on the walk and discussed the situation
with each other.
The ministerial journals sold by wholesale. The angry manifestants
burned them in the streets. Which rendered the camelots more insistent
and obnoxious with fresh bundles to be sold and destroyed in the same
way.
Jean Marot, refreshed by rest and food, lingered a moment at Rue St.
Honoré, uncertain whether to return to his rooms or join a mob of
patriots howling the Marseillaise in front of the Café de Londres.
"Enough," he finally concluded, and turned up towards the Rue Boissy
d'Anglais.
There were evidences of a fierce struggle in the narrow but
aristocratic faubourg. Usually a blaze of light at this hour, it was
closed from street to street and practically deserted. Scared
milliners and dress-makers and fashionable jewellers peered out from
upper windows, still afraid to open up. Fragments of broken canes,
battered hats, and torn vestments told an eloquent story of political
differences.
"We certainly missed the fun here," thought Jean. "Hello! What's
this?"
He had tripped on a woman's skirt in the shadow of the wall.
"Peste! Why can't our fair dames and demoiselles let _us_ fight it
out? There really isn't enough to go round!"
He paused, then returned impulsively and looked at the dark
bundle,--stirred it with his foot. It was certainly the figure of a
woman.
"Last round," he muttered; "next, the Seine!"
His budding professional instincts prompted him to search for the
pulse.
It was still.
And when he took his hand away it was covered with blood.
"Wait!"
He placed his hand over the heart, then uncovered a young but bruised
and swollen face.
"The cavalry," he murmured. "She's dead; she--well, perhaps it was
better."
He glanced up and down the street, as if considering whether to go his
way or to call the police. There was nobody in sight near enough to
attract by cries. The police were busy elsewhere. Then his face all at
once lighted up.
"A good idea!" he ejaculated,--"a very good idea!"
He saw two cabs approaching.
Calling the first, he began to carry the good idea into immediate
execution.
"What is it, monsieur?" inquired the cabman, seeing the body.
"An accident. Quick, cocher!"
With his usual decision Jean thrust the body into the cab and followed
it.
"Allez!" he commanded.
"But, monsieur,--the--the--where to?"
"Pont de Solferino, to Boulevard St. Germain. An extra franc, my lad!"
Having vaguely started the cabby, Jean had time to think. He knew the
prejudices most people entertain concerning the dead. Especially the
prejudices of Paris police agents and cabmen. To give the Rue de
Médecine would set the man to speculating. To mention Le Petit Rouge
would be to have him hail the first man in uniform.
As to Jean Marot, medical student, du Quartier Latin, in his fourth
year, a lifeless body was no more than a bag of sand. It was merely a
"subject."
"The chief benefit conferred upon society and humanity by a large
proportion of our population," he would have cynically observed to any
caviller, "is by dying and becoming useful 'subjects.'"
He considered himself fortunate, however, in having a close cab, out
of deference to those who might differ with him. They crossed the Pont
de Solferino, where a momentary halt gave a couple of alert agents a
chance to scrutinize him a little more sharply than was comfortable,
and turned down Boulevard St. Germain.
At the École de Médecine Jean stopped the cab, as if struck with a new
idea.
"Cocher!"
"Yes, monsieur?"
"Drive to 12 Rue Antoine Dubois."
"How then!"
"I said--drive--to--No. 12--Rue Antoine Dubois! You know where that
is?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur,--only--er--it is right over there opposite
the----"
The man was so excited he found difficulty in expressing himself.
"École Pratique,--that's right," said Jean.
Hardened sinner that he was, the old Paris coachman crossed himself
and, as he entered the uncanny neighborhood, felt around for the
sacred amulet that every good Frenchman wears next to the skin.
"I must get some instruments there before taking this lady home," Jean
added.
The Rue Antoine Dubois is a short street connecting the Rue et Place
de l'École de Médecine with the Rue de Monsieur le Prince. One side of
it is formed by the gloomy wall of the École Pratique, where more
"subjects" are disposed of annually than in any other dozen similar
institutions in the world; the other by various medical shops and
libraries, over which are "clubs," "laboratories," "cliniques," and
student lodgings. At the Rue de Monsieur le Prince the street ends in
a great flight of steps. It therefore forms an impasse, or a pocket
for carriages, and is little used. It was now deserted.
The coachman drew up before a dark court entrance, a sickly light
shining upon him through the surgical appliances, articulated
skeletons, skulls, and other professional exhibits of the nearest
window.
"Let us see; I'll take her up-stairs and make a more careful
examination."
"You--you're a doctor, monsieur?"
"Yes,--there!" He gave the man a five-franc piece. "No,--never mind
the change."
"Merci, monsieur!"
"Better wait--till I see how she is, you know."
Jean bore his burden very carefully till out of sight; then threw it
over his shoulder and felt his way up the half-lighted stairs. He knew
quite well that the man would not wait; believed that the overpayment
would induce him to get away as quickly and as far as possible.
"It's a stiff, sure!" growled the nervous cabman, and he drove out of
the place at a furious rate.
Jean threw his "subject" on the floor and hunted around for a light.
"Le Petit Rouge"--its frequenters were medical students and political
extremists--was replete with books, bones, and anatomical drawings,
black-and-white and in colors. Two complete skeletons mounted
guard,--one in the farther corner, one behind the door. There were
tables and instrument-cases, and surgical saws and things in racks.
There were easy-chairs, pipes, etc. A skull, with the top neatly sawed
off to serve as cover, formed a tobacco receptacle.
But the chef-d'oeuvre was from Jean's ingenious hand. It was the
bow-backed skeleton behind the door, which had been cleverly arranged
as and was called "Madame la Concierge." The skeleton had been arrayed
in a short conventional ballet skirt and scanty lace cap, and held a
candle in one hand and a bottle marked "Absinthe" in the other. The
skirt was to indicate her earlier career, the cap and candle gave an
inkling of her later life, while the bottle told the probable cause of
her decease. This skeleton was so controlled by wires and cords that
it could be made to move out in front of the open door and raise the
candle above the head, as if to see who asked for admission. When the
room was in semi-darkness Madame la Concierge of Le Petit Rouge was
charmingly effective, and had been known to throw some people into
spasms.
Placing his lamp in a favorable position, Jean Marot pulled off his
coat, removed his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to
extend his subject upon what young Armand Massard facetiously called
"the dressing-table."
"Good God!" he exclaimed, falling back a step. "Why, it's the
demoiselle of the Place de la Concorde!"