When Fouchette opened her eyes it was to see three strange faces at
her bedside,--the faces of Dr. Cardiac, Jean Marot, and a professional
nurse.
But she had regained consciousness long before she could see, her eyes
being in bandages, and had passively listened to the soft goings and
comings and low conversations and whispered directions, without saying
anything herself or betraying her growing curiosity.
These sounds came to her vaguely and brokenly at first, then forced
themselves on her attention connectedly. Surely she was not at Le Bon
Pasteur! Then where was she? And finally the recollection of recent
events rushed upon her, and her poor little head seemed to be on the
point of bursting.
Things finally appeared quite clear, until her eyes were free and she
saw for the first time her new surroundings, when she involuntarily
manifested her surprise.
It certainly was not a hospital, as she had imagined the place. The
sunny chamber, with its tastefully decorated walls hung with pictures,
the foils over the door,--through which she saw a still more lovely
room,--the voluptuous divan and its soft cushions, the heavy Turkish
rugs, the rich damask hangings of her bed,--no; it certainly was not a
hospital.
It was the most beautiful room Fouchette had ever seen,--such as her
fancy had allotted to royal blood,--at least to the nobility. To
awaken in such a place was like the fairy tales Sister Agnes had read
to her long ago.
"Well, mademoiselle," said the old surgeon, cheerily, "we're getting
along,--getting along, eh, Monsieur Marot?"
"Admirably!" said Jean.
Fouchette glanced from one to the other. The doctor she had long
recognized by voice and touch; but this young man, was he the prince
of this palace?
The eyes of the pair rested upon each other for the moment
inquiringly.
Both Fouchette and Jean concluded this examination with a sigh.
Fouchette had recognized in him the young man who marched by her side
in the Place de la Concorde,--only a rioter. He could not live here.
Jean Marot, who thought he had seen something in this girl besides her
hair to remind him of the woman he loved, acknowledged himself in
error. It had been a mere fancy,--he dismissed it.
He turned away and stood looking gloomily into the street. But the
young man saw nothing. He was thinking of the unfortunate turn of
political events in France that had arrayed friend against friend,
brother against brother.
It was social revolution--anarchy!
Now his friend Lerouge and he had quarrelled,--exchanged blows. They
had wrangled before, but within the bounds of student friendship.
Blows had now changed this friendship to hatred. Blows from those whom
we love are hardest to forgive,--they are never forgotten.
Yet it was not this friendship in itself that particularly concerned
Jean Marot. Through it he had calculated on reaching something more
vital to his happiness.
Henri Lerouge had introduced him to Mlle. Remy. It was in the Jardin
du Luxembourg. They had met but for a brief minute. The presentation
had been coldly formal,--reluctant. Yet in that time, in the midst of
the usual conventionalities, Jean had looked into a pair of soulful
blue eyes that had smiled upon him, and Jean was lost.
His hope of meeting her again lay in and through Lerouge,--and now
they had quarrelled; and about a Jew!
The fine blonde hair and slender figure of this girl--this "child of
the police"--had reminded Jean of Mlle. Remy. She possessed the same
kind of hair. It was this mental association that prompted him to
carry the unknown to his own lodgings as described. This impulse of
compassion and association was strengthened by his narrow escape from
being her slayer. In fact, it was the best thing to have done under
all the circumstances.
Now that the causes and the impulse had disappeared together, he began
to feel bored. The "child of the police" was in his way,--the police
might look after her. Jean Marot had troubles of his own.
As for Fouchette, she silently regarded the motionless figure at the
window, wondering, thinking, on her part, of many things. When it had
disappeared in the adjoining room she beckoned to the doctor.
"The young man, Monsieur Marot?" she asked, feebly. "Is this his----"
"It is his apartment, mademoiselle," the doctor anticipated.
"Tell me----"
"Monsieur Marot found you in the street near by, after the riot of the
25th of October, and brought you here,--temporarily, you know."
"Monsieur Marot is very good," she murmured.
"Excellent young man!" said the doctor. "A trifle obstinate, but still
a very excellent young man, mademoiselle."
The girl was silent for a minute, as if lost in thought.
"Is this his--his bedchamber, doctor?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I must be moved," she said, promptly. "You understand? I must be
removed at once. Take me to a hospital, please!"
"Oh, don't excite yourself about it, my child. Soon enough--when you
are able."
"What day of the month is----"
"This? The 5th of November."
"Ten days! Ten days!"
"Yes,--you have had a narrow call, mademoiselle."
"And I owe my life to you, doctor."
"To Monsieur Marot, mademoiselle."
"Ah! but you----"
"If it hadn't been for him I would never have seen you, child."
He spoke very gently and in a subdued voice that reached only her ear.
Another pause.
"It is all the more important that I should not trouble him,--disturb
him any longer than necessary. You understand?"
"Very truly, mademoiselle," replied he; "very thoughtful of you,--very
womanly. It does you credit, Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"What? You, then, know my name?"
"Certainly." The doctor observed her surprise with a genial smile.
"I am very grateful,"--that they should know her for what she was and
yet have been so good to her moved her deeply,--"I am very grateful,
monsieur. But how did you know it was me, Fouchette?"
"Well, there is one man in Paris who knows you----"
"Inspector Loup?" she asked, quickly.
"Inspector Loup," said he.
"And he knows where I am,--certainly, for he knows
everything,--everything!"
"Not quite, possibly, but enough."
"I must see Inspector Loup, doctor; yes, I must see him at once. When
was he here?"
"Within the hour in which you were brought," said the doctor.
He was not disposed to be communicative on the subject of the Secret
Service, or about its director, having a healthy contempt for the
system of official espionage deemed necessary to any sort of French
government, Royalist, Napoléonic, or Republican. And he wondered what
mysterious band could unite the interests of this charity child with
the interests of the government of France.
"Where are my clothes, doctor?" she suddenly inquired, half raising
herself on her elbow.
"Oh! là, là! Why, you can't go now! It is impossible! The inspector
can come and see you here, can't he?"
"But where are my clothes? Are they----"
"They're here, all right."
"Let me see them, please."
"Very good; but don't get excited,--nobody will run away with them;
bless my soul! Nobody has had them except--except the nurse and
Inspector Loup."
"He?"
"Yes, mademoiselle,--for identification."
"Oh!"
Fouchette was nervous. She had been reminded of the letter by the
first mention of the inspector's name. Had anybody found the letter?
Was it there still? Supposing it had been lost! What was this letter,
anyhow? It must be very important, or the senders would have mailed it
in the regular way. She felt that she dared not betray its presence by
pushing the demand for her clothing.
"It is very curious, too," added the doctor, "how that man could
identify you by means of clothing he had never before seen. He
probably had information from where you came, with your description."
"Y-yes, monsieur,--I----"
Fouchette had never thought of that. It did not comfort her, as may
well be imagined.
"I'll speak to the nurse about the clothes----"
"Pardon! but it is unnecessary, doctor. I only wanted to know if they
were--were safe, you know. No; never mind. I thank you very much. I
shall need them only when I am removed, which I hope will be soon."
* * * * *
In the Rue St. Jacques stands an old weather-stained, irregular pile
of stone, inconspicuous in a narrow, crooked street lined with similar
houses. The grim walls retreat from the first floor to the roof, in
the monolithic style of the Egyptian tomb. Beneath the first floor is
the usual shop,--a rôtisserie patronized by the scholars of two
centuries,--famed of Balzac, de Musset, Dumas, Hugo, and a myriad
lesser pens.
The other houses of the neighborhood are equally oblivious to modern
opinion. They consent to lean against each other while jointly turning
an indifferent face to the world, like a man about whose ugliness
there is no dispute. No two run consecutively with the walks, and all
together present a sky-line that paralyzes calculation.
The historic street at this point is a lively market during the
business day. Its sidewalks being only wide enough for the dogs to
sun themselves without danger from passing vehicles, it is necessary
for the passers to take that risk by walking in the roadway. Those
who do not care to assume any risks go around by way of Rue
Gay-Lussac,--especially after midnight, when the street enjoys its
personal reputation. The Panthéon is just around the corner, and the
ancient Sorbonne, Louis le Grand, and the College of France line the
same street on the next block, and have stood there for some hundreds
of years; but, all the same, timid people certainly prefer to reach
them by a roundabout way rather than by this section of Rue St.
Jacques.
Mlle. Fouchette had accepted a home in the Rue St. Jacques and in this
particular building because other people did not wish to live there,
which made rooms cheap.
If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" you
might have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that sent
a long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost in
some hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a little
brass "judas," disclosing a little, black, hard eye. Assuming that
this eye was satisfied with you, the slide would be closed with a
snap, bolts unshot, bars swung clear, and the heavy, iron-clamped door
opened by a rascally-looking man whose blouse, chiefly, distinguished
him from the race orang-outang.
Once within, you would notice that the door mentioned was ribbed with
wrought iron and that two lateral bars of heavy metal were used to
secure it from within. It dates from the Reign of Terror.
Having passed this formidable barrier, you would follow the tunnel to
a square court paved with worn granite, enter a rear passage, and
mount a narrow stone stairway, the steps of which are so worn as to
leave an uncertain footing. If it happens to be in the night or early
morning, the brass knobs in the centre of the doors will be ornamented
with milk-bottles. There are four of these doors on every landing, and
consequently four "appartements" on each floor; but as each wing seems
to have been built in a different age from the others, and no two
architects were able to accurately figure on reaching the same level,
the effect is as uncertain as the stairs.
Mlle. Fouchette's "home" consisted of but a single square room
fronting on the court by two windows with bogus balconies. The
daylight from these windows showed a fireplace of immense size, and
out of all proportion to the room, a bed smothered in the usual alcove
by heavy curtains, a divan improvised from some ancient article of
furniture, a small round table, and an easy-chair, and two or three
others not so easy. There was one distinguished exception to the
general effect of old age and hard usage, and this was a modern
combination bureau, washstand, and dressing-table with folding mirror
attachment, which when shut down was as demure and dignified as an
upright piano.
The effective feature of a place the entire contents of which might
have been extravagantly valued at twenty-five dollars was the
exquisite harmony of colors. This effect is common to French
interiors, where there is also a common tendency to over-decoration.
The harmony began in the cheap paper on the walls, extended to bed and
window draperies, and ended in the tissue-paper lamp-shade that at
night lent a softened, rhythmical tone to the whole. This genial color
effect was a delicate suggestion of blue, and the result was a
doll-like daintiness that was altogether charming.
The autographic fan mania had left its mark over the divan in the
shape of a gigantic fan constructed of little fans and opening out
towards the ceiling. A few pen-and-ink and pencil sketches and
studies, apparently the cast-off of many studios, were tacked up here
and there. The high mantel bore an accumulation of odds and ends
peculiar to young women of low means and cheap friendships. That was
all. But a French girl can get the best results from a room, as she
can from a hat, with the least money.
Mlle. Fouchette had reached all of this private magnificence through a
singular concatenation of circumstances.
_First_, Inspector Loup.
That distinguished penologist had laid his hands upon Mlle. Fouchette
in no uncertain way.
An order of arrest was at this very moment lying in a certain
pigeon-hole at the Préfecture. She had seen it. The name of "Mlle.
Fouchette" appeared in the body thereof in big, fat, round letters,
and a complete description, age, height, color of hair and eyes, and
other particulars appeared across the back of this terrible paper,
which was duly signed and ready for service.
A tap of the bell,--a push of an electric button,--and Mlle. Fouchette
would be in prison.
There were five distinct counts against her, set forth in ponderous
and damning legal phraseology and briefed alphabetically with a
precision that carried conviction:
"A.--Vagrant--no home--supposed to have come from Nantes.
"B.--Consort of thieves--confession of life convict called 'le
Cochon,' drawer 379, R.M.L. 29.
"C.--Go-between of robbers of the wood of Vincennes and receivers of
stolen goods. Confession of M. Podvin, wine merchant, now serving
term of twenty-one years for highway robbery, drawer 1210, R.M.L. 70.
"D.--Fugitive from State institution, where sent by lawful authority.
See Le Bon Pasteur, Nancy. R.I. 2734.
"E.--Lost or destroyed public document addressed to the Préfecture and
confided to her care under her false representation of being an
authorized agent of that department of the government."
The service of this dreadful order of arrest, behind which crouched
these crimes ready to rise and spring upon her, was suspended by
Inspector Loup. For which tenderness and mercy Fouchette was merely to
report to the Secret Service bureau in accordance with a preconcerted
arrangement.
_Second_, Madeleine.
Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for his
forbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Change
towards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She was
somewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was so
limited that it was a sensation.
It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road to
Charenton long, long ago!
Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under the
lustrous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figure
looked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through the
scant bloomer bicycle suit.
The owner of this face and figure did not recognize in the other the
petite chiffonnière de Charenton. That would have been too much to
expect.
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle----"
Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless.
"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"
"Fouchette?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker of
Charenton? But of course not,--it was long ago, and I have changed."
The other stared at her with her big black eyes.
"I was hungry,--you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind,--and I do
not easily forget, mademoiselle,--though I'm only Fouchette,--no!"
"What! Fouchette--the--dame! it is impossible!"
"Still, it is true, mademoiselle," insisted Fouchette, laughing.
"Ah! I see--I know--why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'--oh! sacré
bleu! To think----"
She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out at
arm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet and
back again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrily
the while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous passers.
Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of the
pretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toned
down by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath.
"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, petite!" exclaimed the
bicycliste.
"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital--only a few
days----"
"Pauvrette! Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion," said the
other, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "You
shall tell me everything, dear."
"But, Mademoiselle--er----"
"Madeleine,--just Madeleine, Fouchette."
"Mademoiselle Madeleine----"
"I live over here,--au Quartier Latin. It is the only place--the place
to see life. It is Paris! C'est la vie joyeuse!"
"Ah! then you no longer live at----"
"Let us begin here, Fouchette," interrupted Mlle. Madeleine, gravely,
"and let us never talk about Charenton,--never! It cannot be a
pleasant subject to you,--it is painful to me."
"Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle, I----"
"So it is understood, is it not?"
"With all my heart, mademoiselle!" said Fouchette, not sorry to
conclude such a desirable bargain.
"Very good. We begin here----"
"Now."
"Yes, and as if we had never before seen or heard of each other."
"Exactly."
"Good! Now, what are you doing for a living, Fouchette?"
"Nothing."
"Good! So am I."
They laughed quite a great deal at this remarkable coincidence as they
went along. And when Mlle. Fouchette protested that she must do
something,--sewing, or something,--Mlle. Madeleine laughed yet more
loudly, though Mlle. Fouchette saw nothing humorous in the situation.
"Nobody works in the Quartier Latin," said Madeleine. "C'est la vie
joyeuse."
"But one must eat, mademoiselle----"
"Very sure! Yes, and drink; but----"
Mlle. Madeleine scrutinized her companion closely,--evidently Mlle.
Fouchette was in earnest. Such naïveté in a ragpicker was absurd,
preposterous!
"Well, there are the studios," suggested Madeleine.
"The--the studios?"
"Yes,--the painters, you know; only models are a drug in the market
here----"
"Models?"
"Yes; and, then, unless one has the figure----" she glanced at
Fouchette doubtfully. "I'm getting too stout for anything but Roman
mothers, Breton peasants, etc. You're too thin even for an angel or
ballet dancer."
"I'm sure I'd rather be a danseuse than an angel," said
Fouchette,--"that is, if I've got any choice in the matter."
"But one hasn't. You've got to pose in whatever character they want.
Did you ever pose?"
"As a painter's model? Never."
Having ensconced themselves in a popular café restaurant on Boulevard
St. Michel, the pair ordered an appetizing déjeuner, and Madeleine
proceeded to enlighten Fouchette on the subject of the profession,--the
character and peculiarities of various artists, their exactions of
models, the recompense for holding a certain pose for a given time, the
difficulty and art of resuming exactly the same pose, the studios for
classes in the nude, the students generally and their pranks and
games,--especially upon this latter branch of the business.
Mlle. Fouchette listened to all this with breathless interest, as may
be imagined. For it was the opening up of a new world to her. The
vivid description of the dancing and fun at the Bal Bullier filled her
with delight and enthusiasm. She mentally vowed Madeleine as charming
and condescending as ever. The girl had volunteered, good-naturedly,
to make the rounds of the studios with her and get her "on the list."
When Madeleine offered to engineer Fouchette's début at the Bullier
the latter cheerfully paid for the repast the other had rather
lavishly ordered.
The mere chance rencontre had changed Fouchette's entire plan of life.
She had bravely started for the grand boulevards with the idea of
securing employment among the myriad dressmaking establishments of
that neighborhood, and thus putting to practical use her industrial
knowledge gained at Le Bon Pasteur.
Fortunately for her, Monsieur Marot's generous liberality had placed
her beyond immediate need. A matron had equipped her with a new though
simple costume and had given her a sum of money as she left,--merely
saying that she acted according to instructions; but Fouchette felt
that it was from her prince.
It was on the advice of Madeleine that Fouchette had secured this
place in the Rue St. Jacques.
"It will make you independent and respected," said the practical
grisette. "You've got the money now; you won't have it after a while.
Take my advice,--fix the place up,--gradually, don't you know? You'll
soon make friends who will help you if you're smart; and one must have
a place to receive friends, n'est-ce pas? And the hotels garnis rob
one shamefully!"
And, while Mlle. Fouchette did not dream of the real significance of
this advice, she took it. The details were hers. She knew the value of
a sou about as well as any woman in Paris, and no instructions were
required on the subject of expenditures. She collected, piece by
piece, at bottom prices, those articles which had to be purchased;
made, stitch by stitch, such as required the needle.
To Mlle. Fouchette the simple, cheaply furnished and somewhat tawdry
little room in the Rue St. Jacques was luxury. She was proud of it.
She was perfectly contented with it. It was home.
With the confidence of one who has seen the worst and for whom every
change must be for the better, Fouchette had succeeded where others
would have been discouraged. This confidence to others often seemed
reckless indifference, and consequently carried a certain degree of
conviction.
Among a certain class of wild young men and confirmed Bohemians
Fouchette had quickly achieved a sort of vogue which attaches to an
eccentric woman in Paris. She was eccentric in that she danced
eccentric dances, was the most reckless in the sportive circle, the
highest kicker at the Bullier, and, most of all, in that she had no
lovers. Unlike the Mimi Pinsons of the Murger era of the quarter,
Fouchette was the most notorious of grisettes without being a
grisette. At the fête of the student painters at the Bullier she had
been borne on a palanquin clad only in a garland of roses amid
thousands of vociferous young people of both sexes. The same night she
had kicked a young man's front teeth out for presuming on liberties
other girls of her set would have considered trifling.
Fouchette at once became the reigning sensation of "la vie joyeuse."
Having had little or no pleasure in the world up to her entrée here,
she had plunged into the gayety of the quarter with an abandon that
within two short months had made the Bohemian tales of Henri Murger
tame reading.
Her pedal dexterity in a quarrel had won for her the sobriquet of "La
Savatière."
The "savate" as practised by the French boxer is the art of using the
feet the same as the hands, and it is a means of offence not to be
despised. It is the feline art that utilizes all four limbs in combat.
Fouchette acquired it in her infancy,--in the fun and frequent
scrimmages of the quarter she found occasion to practise it. Mlle.
Fouchette's temper was as eccentric as her dances.
On the wall of Mlle. Fouchette's room hung a rude crayon of that
damsel by a prominent caricaturist. It was a front view of her face,
in which the artist had maliciously accentuated, in a few bold
strokes, the feline fulness of jaws, the half-contracted eyelids, the
alert eyes, and general catlike expression,--to be seen only when
Mlle. Fouchette was in anger. It was the subtle touch of the master,
and was labelled "La Petite Chatte."
"Ah, cè!" she would say to curious visitors,--"it is not me; it is the
mind of Léandre."
As Mlle. Fouchette stood tiptoeing before a little folding mirror on
the high mantel, the reflection showed both front and sides of a face
that betrayed none of these characteristics. In fact, the blonde hair,
smoothed flat to the skull and draping low over the ears, after the
fashion set by a popular actress of the day, gave her the demure look
of a young woman who might shriek at the sight of a man in his
shirt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge by
appearances,--of a woman, especially. The slender figure showed that
the physical indications in the delicately rounded arm, the taper
fingers, and shapely feet were justified by the proportionate
development of the rest of her anatomy. Nature had been gentle rather
than generous. Mlle. Fouchette was in demand for angels and ballet
dancers.
Her face, evidently, did not suit Mlle. Fouchette, since she was at
this moment in the act of touching it up and making it over with
colors from an enamelled box,--a trick of the Parisienne of every
grade.
Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely put the finishing touches to her artistic
job when her door vibrated under a vigorous blow.
She paused, hesitated, flushed with symptoms of a rising temper. One
does not feel kindly towards persons hurling themselves thus against
one's private door. But the noise continued, as if somebody beat the
heavy planking with the fist, and Mlle. Fouchette threw the door open.
Mlle. Madeleine staggered into the room.
"How's this? melon!"
"Oh! so you're here,--you are not there!" gasped the intruder, falling
into a seat and fixing her black eyes sullenly upon the other.
Mlle. Fouchette closed the door with a snap and confronted her visitor
with a hardening face.
"I thought it was you, Fouchette!"
"Madeleine, you're drunk!"
"No, no, no, no! I have had such a--a--turn, deary,--pardon me! But
she had the same figure,--the same hair,--mon Dieu!"
"Who?"
"Oh! I don't know, Fouchette,--the woman with him, you know,--with
Henri, Fouchette!"
The speaker seemed overcome with mingled terror and anger. She stopped
to collect her thoughts,--to get her breath.
"What a fool you are, Madeleine! I wouldn't go on that way for the
best man living! No!"
And Fouchette thought of Jean Marot, and mentally included him.
"Oh! Fouchette, dear, you do not know! You cannot know! You never
loved! You cannot love! You are calm and cold and indifferent,--it is
your nature. Mine! I am consumed by fire,--it grips my very vitals!
Ah! Fouchette!"
"Bah! Madeleine, it is absinthe," said Fouchette, only half
pityingly.
"No, no, no, no!" moaned the other, covering her face with her hands.
"So this Lerouge has disappeared, eh? Well, then, let him go, fool!
Are there not others?"
"Mon Dieu! Fouchette, how you talk!"
"Who is this lucky woman?"
"I do not know,--I do not know! Pardon me for thinking it, Fouchette,
but I was half crazy,--I thought but just now that it was--was you!"
"Idiot!"
"Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves."
"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me,
Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,--I never even
saw him,--had disappeared----"
"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run
away?"
"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do
that, you silly goose!"
"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's
Remy,--yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing
like--oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm
half crazy!"
"I believe you," said Fouchette.
"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me----"
Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped.
Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden
surprise was----
"Well, melon!" she snapped.
"I--why, I didn't know you----"
"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other.
"That her name was Remy."
"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.
"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I
don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy."
Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.
"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunken
gossip!"
Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right
foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went
down like a log.