Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her
with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.
They immediately embraced and wept together.
Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and
brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only
suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she
had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many
endearments behind her.
Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than
had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.
What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.
Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.
Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost
intangible,--like the millionaire employer to his humble workman,
covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.
When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she
would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she
would have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, by
accident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first time
he had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume to
detain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her and
talk to her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was getting
along,--condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the moment
in a former servant.
In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la vie
joyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Petit Rouge." It attracted the
attention of his associates.
"First Lerouge, now it's Jean," growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafing
along the quais nights,--it's malaria."
"He's greatly changed," remarked another student.
"It's worry," said another.
"Probably debts," observed young Massard, thinking of his chief
affliction.
"Bah! that kind of worry never pulls you down like this," retorted a
companion.
"Now, don't get personal; but debts do worry a fellow,--debts and
women."
"Put women first; debts follow as a necessary corollary."
"He ought to hunt up Lerouge. What the devil is in that Lerouge,
anyhow?"
"More women," said Massard.
"And debts, eh?"
"Oh, well," continued Massard, "if she is a pretty woman----"
"She's more than pretty," cut in George Villeroy,--"she's a beauty!"
"Hear! hear! Très bien!"
But the student turned to the "subject" on the "dressing-table,"
humming a gay chanson of Musset:
"'Nous allons chanter à la ronde,
Si vous voulez.
Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blonde
Comme les blés!'"
"A man never should neglect his lectures for anything, and that's what
both Lerouge and Jean are doing," remarked a serious young man,
looking up from his book.
"Yes, and the first thing our comrade Marot will know, he'll be
recalled by his choleric father. He's taken to absinthe, too----"
"Which is worse."
"_The_ worst----"
"And prowling----"
"And moping off alone."
"What's the lady's name?"
"Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"What! the wild, untamed----"
"La Savatière? Nonsense!"
"Here's a lock of her hair in evidence," remarked Massard, going to a
drawer and taking out a bit of paper. "It is as clear to my mind as it
was to the police that Monsieur Marot had that girl, or some other
like her, up here that night."
"Let me see that," said Villeroy.
"I found it on the floor the next day,--the inspector took away quite
a bunch of it," continued the young man, as the other examined the
lock.
"There are two women who have hair like that," said
Villeroy,--"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, which
is it?"
"Her name is Remy,--Mademoiselle Remy," observed Massard; "and, as
George says, she's a beauty----"
"Which cannot be said of La Savatière."
"No; and yet----"
"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Massard. "I never
saw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette,
who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up a
dozen times."
"Very likely," observed Villeroy.
* * * * *
It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumière was en fête. The
left bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students,
was especially joyous.
There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stood
apart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf,
gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine.
Jean Marot loved the noble span that for more than three hundred years
had connected the ancient Isle de la Cité with the mainland. A long
line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen of
every degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout
men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers,
countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above these
massive stone arches of three centuries.
Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one
little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he
analyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that the
little winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly so
unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but
rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never
thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced
to a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover,
Henri IV., looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly.
A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused the
young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.
"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fête," said a
rich contralto voice behind him.
He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face
and to look into a pair of bold black eyes.
"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Marot!"
"Hello! Madeleine,--you, Fouchette?"
"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter gayly. "And you,--is it a day to
dream of casting one's self into the Seine?"
Meanwhile, the object of this raillery was busily extracting bits of
colored paper from his eyebrows and neck,--a wholly useless
proceeding, for both girls immediately deluged him with a fresh
avalanche.
Madeleine was in her costume à la bicyclette, her sailor hat tipped
forward to such a degree that it was necessary for her to elevate her
stout chin in order to see anything on a level. Mlle. Fouchette
affected the clinging, fluffy style of costume best suited to her
figure, while her rare blonde hair à la Merode was her distinguishing
feature. She dominated the older and stouter girl as if the latter
were an irresponsible junior.
Jean Marot knew very well the type of grisette indigenous to the
Quartier Latin.
The day justified all sorts of familiarity, and his black velvet béret
and flowing black scarf were an invitation to fraternity, good
fellowship, and confidence.
Both young women were in high spirits and carried in bags of fancy
netting with tricolor draw-strings their surplus stock of confetti,
and an enormous quantity of the surplus stock of other manifestants in
their hair and clothing. As fast as Jean picked out the confetti from
his neck Mlle. Madeleine playfully squandered other handfuls on him,
winding up by covering the young man with the entire contents of her
bag at a single coup.
"Ah! Madeleine!"
"Monsieur will buy us some more," replied that young woman.
"How foolish!" said Mlle. Fouchette, affecting a charming modesty. She
had a way of cocking her fair head to one side like a bird.
"Never mind, mes enfants," said Jean. "Come along."
The three linked arms and passed off the bridge and up the Rue
Dauphine and Rue de Monsieur le Prince for Boulevard St. Michel, the
lively young women distributing confetti in liberal doses and taking
similar punishment in utmost good humor, Jean not sorry for the time
being at finding this temporary distraction. He had generously
replenished the pretty bags from the first baraque, though they were
quickly emptied again in the narrow Rue de Monsieur le Prince, where a
hot engagement between students and "filles du quartier" was in
progress.
Mlle. Madeleine was fairly choking with laughter. She had just caught
a young man with his mouth open, by a trick of the elbow; and as he
mutely sputtered confetti her petite blonde companion caught her long
skirt aside and kicked his hat off. This "coup de pied" was
administered with such marvellous grace and dexterity that even the
victim joined in the roar of laughter that followed it. A thin smile
spread over her pale face as Jean looked at her.
"La Savatière,--bravo!" cried a youth.
"C'est le lapin du Luxembourg," said another.
"It is Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"There, monsieur," remarked Fouchette, slyly, "you see I'm getting
known in the quarter."
"I don't wonder," said Jean, laughing.
They found seats beneath the awnings at the Taverne du Panthéon. The
rain of confetti was getting to be a deluge. He asked them what they
would have.
"Un ballon, garçon," said Mlle. Fouchette, promptly.
This designated a small glass of beer, served in a balloon-shaped
glass like a large claret glass.
Madeleine also would take "un ballon," Jean contenting himself with
the usual "bock,"--an ordinary glass of beer.
Each covered the beer with the little saucer, to protect it from the
occasional gust of confetti that even found its way to the extreme
rear of the half a hundred sidewalk sitters.
Mlle. Fouchette had been studying the young man from the corners of
her eyes. She saw him greatly changed. His handsome face betrayed
marks of worry or dissipation,--she decided on the latter. What could
a young man in his enviable position have to worry about? Was it
possible that----
"Monsieur," she began at once, with the air of an ingénue, "they say
you strongly resemble one Lerouge,--that you are often taken one for
the other. Is it so?"
He glanced at her inquiringly, while Madeleine patted the ground with
her foot.
"Have you ever seen Henri Lerouge?" he asked.
"No, never," replied Fouchette.
"Does he look like me, Madeleine?"
"Not much, monsieur," responded that damsel. "Have you seen him,--have
you seen Lerouge lately?"
"No,--no," said he.
"From what I learn," remarked Mlle. Fouchette, with a precision and
nonchalance that defied suspicion, "Monsieur Lerouge is probably off
in some sweet solitude unknown to vulgar eye enjoying his honeymoon."
Madeleine shot one furious glance at the speaker; but not daring to
trust her tongue, she suddenly excused herself and disappeared in the
throng.
Jean saw that she had been cut to the quick, and her abrupt action
served for the moment to dull the pain at his own heart. He concealed
his resentment at this malicious--but, after all, this "child of the
police" could not know. He shifted the talk to Madeleine.
"You seem to have offended her, mademoiselle."
"Bah! Madeleine is that jealous----"
"What? Lerouge?"
"Of Lerouge. Can't you see?"
"No,--that is, I didn't know that she had anything in common with
Lerouge."
"Ah, ça! When she flies into a rage at the mention of him and another
woman? Monsieur is not gifted with surprising penetration."
"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is rather a handsome girl," he observed,
tentatively. While he mentally resolved not to be robbed of his own
secret he was not averse to gaining any information this girl might
possess.
"Perhaps," said she,--"for those who admire the robust style. But you
should see the other; she's an angel!"
"Indeed?"
It was hard to put this in a tone of indifference, and he felt her
eyes upon him.
"Yes, monsieur."
"I'd like to see her. You know angels are not to be seen every day."
"Monsieur Lerouge can be trusted, I suppose, to render these visions
as fleeting and rare as possible."
He winced perceptibly.
"But Madeleine has magnificent eyes," he suggested.
"This other has the eyes of heaven, monsieur."
"And as for figure----"
"Chut! monsieur is joking,--the form of a Normandie nurse!
Mademoiselle Remy is the sculptor's dream!"
Jean Marot laughed. This unstinted praise of the girl who had
fascinated him,--who had robbed him of his rest,--who had without an
effort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul,--it was
incense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye,--a most
excellent judgment. It extracted the sting----
"Yes," continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were so
much glass, "a great artist said to me the other day----"
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty,--the 'sculptor's
dream,' you know,--does she do the studios of the quarter?"
"No! Why should she?"
He was silent. Would she have another drink?
"Thanks! Un ballon, garçon," repeated Mlle. Fouchette.
They looked at the crowd in silence for a while.
The scene was inspiriting. With the shades of evening the joyous
struggle waxed more furious. The entire street was now taken up by the
merrymakers, who made the air resound with their screams and shrieks
of laughter. The confetti lay three or four inches deep on the walks,
where street gamins slyly scraped it into private receptacles for
second use. The haze of dust hung over the broad Boulevard St. Michel
like a morning fog over a swamp. Mlle. Fouchette watched the scene for
a few minutes without a word. Both were thinking of something else.
"She'll soon get over it, never fear."
"I suppose so," he said, knowing that she still spoke of Madeleine,
and somewhat bored at her reappearance in the conversation.
"A woman does not go on loving a man who never cares for her,--who
loves another."
"'Loves another,'" he repeated, absently.
"But if Madeleine meets them just now,--oh! look out, monsieur! She's
a tiger!"
He shuddered. He was unable to stand this any longer; he rose
absent-mindedly and, with scant courtesy to the gossipper,
incontinently fled.
"Ah! what a handsome fellow he is! Yet he is certainly a fool about
women. A pig like Madeleine! But, then, all men are fools when it
comes to a woman."
With this bit of philosophy Mlle. Fouchette buried her dainty nose in
the last "ballon." She quenched a rising sigh by the operation. For
some reason she was not quite happy. As she withdrew it her face
suddenly became all animation.
"Ah!" she muttered, "I'd give my last louis now if that melon,
Madeleine, could only see that."
Directly in front of her and not ten feet distant a young man and a
young girl slowly forced a passage through the conflicting currents of
boisterous people. The man was anywhere between twenty-five and
thirty, of supple figure, serious face, and sombre eyes that lighted
up reluctantly at all of this frivolity. It was only when they were
turned upon the sweet young face of the girl at his side that they
took on a glow of inexpressible sweetness.
"Truly!" said Mlle. Fouchette to herself, "but she is something on my
style."
Which is perhaps the highest compliment one woman can pay another. It
meant that her "style" was quite satisfactory,--the right thing. Yet
Mlle. Fouchette really needed some fifty pounds of additional flesh to
get into the same class.
If the rippling laughter, the shining azure of her eyes, the
ever-changing expression of her mobile mouth, and now and then the
rapt look bestowed upon her companion were indications, she certainly
was a happy young woman. Her right hand rested upon his arm, her left
shielded her face from the too fierce onslaughts of confetti. Neither
of them took an active part in the fun. That, however, did not deter
the young men from complimenting her with a continuous shower of
confetti. The girl laughingly shook it out of her beautiful blonde
hair.
"Allons donc! She has my hair, too!" thought Mlle. Fouchette. It is
impossible not to admire ourselves in others.
With the excitement of an unaccustomed pleasure mantling her neck and
cheeks the girl was certainly a pretty picture. The plain and simple
costume was of the cut of the provinces rather than that of Paris, but
it set off the lithe and graceful figure that needed no artificiality
of the dressmaker to enforce its petite perfection.
"That must be Lerouge," thought Mlle. Fouchette. "He does look
something like--no; it is imagination. He is not nearly so handsome as
Monsieur Marot. But she is sweet!"
The couple were forced over against the chairs by the crowd and Mlle.
Fouchette got a good look at them. The eyes of Mlle. Remy met
hers,--they sought the face of her companion, and returned and rested
curiously upon Mlle. Fouchette. The glance of her escort followed in
the same direction. And even after they had passed he half turned
again and looked back at the girl sitting alone amid the crowd under
the awning.
Jean Marot had plunged into the throng to try and shake off the
unpleasant suggestions of Mlle. Fouchette. While he felt instinctively
the feminine malice, it was none the less bitter to his taste. It was
opening a wound afresh and salting it. He felt that the idea suggested
by "La Savatière" was intolerable,--impossible. He paced up and down
alone in the Luxembourg gardens until retreat was sounded. Then he
re-entered the boulevard by the Place de Médicis, dodged a bevy of
singing grisettes in male attire, to suddenly find himself face to
face with the object of his thoughts.
How beautiful, and sweet and pure and innocent she looked! The
laughing eyes, the profusion of hair with its tint of gold, now
sparkling with confetti, the two rows of pearls between their rich
rims of red,--it surely was an angel from the skies and not a woman
who stood before him! And his knees trembled with the desire to let
him to the earth at her feet.
The young girl regarded him first in semi-recognition, then with blank
astonishment,--as well she might. She shrank closer to her protector.
Henri Lerouge had at first looked at his former friend with a dark and
scowling face; but Jean had seen only the girl, and therefore failed
to note the expression of satisfaction that swiftly succeeded.
"Pardon! but, monsieur, even Mardi Gras does not excuse a boor." And
Lerouge somewhat roughly elbowed him to one side.
The insult from Lerouge was nothing. Jean never thought of that. She
had come, she had ignored him, she had gone,--the woman he loved!
He stood speechless for a moment, then staggered away, his self-love
bleeding.
Unconsciously he had taken the direction they had gone, slowly groping
his way rather than walking, next to the iron fence of the Luxembourg
gardens, past the great School of Mines, along the Boulevard St. Michel
towards the Observatory. Like a drunken man he stuck close to the walls,
and thus crossed the obtuse angle into Rue Denfert-Rocherau. Hesitating
at the tomb-like buildings that mark the entrance to the catacombs at
the end of that street, he leaned against the great wrought-iron grille
and tried to collect his thoughts.
He remembered now; this was where he had gone down one day to view the
rows and stacks of boxes and vaults of mouldering bones. Yes, he even
recalled the humorous idea of that day that there were more Parisians
beneath the pavements of Paris than above them, and that they slept
better o' nights.
The cold wind stirred the branches, and they grated against the fence
with a dismal, sighing sound.
"Loves another!"
Was it not that which it said?
"Loves another!" in plain and well-measured cadence.
And the word "l-o-v-e-s" was long and sorrowfully drawn out, and
"another" came sharply decisive.
He wandered on, aimlessly, yet in the general direction of Montrouge.
Fouchette,--yes, she had told the truth. He--where was he?
The streets up here were practically deserted, the entire population,
apparently, having gone to the boulevards. Here and there some
rez-de-chaussée aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges.
Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered with
confetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the day
together.
Rue Hallé,--he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it.
All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgar
earth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly round
the corner from the Avenue d'Orléans and came towards him. Her stout
figure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down the
street,--the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perched
forward at an angle of forty-five degrees.
It was Mlle. Madeleine.
What could she be doing here at this hour,--she, who lived in Rue
Monge?
Before he could answer this question she was almost upon him. But she
was so absorbed in her own purposes that she saw him not, merely
turning to the right up the Rue Hallé with the quick and certain step
of one who knows. Her black brows were set fiercely, and beneath them
the big dark eyes glittered dangerously. Her full lips were tightly
compressed; in the firmness of her tread was a world of determination.
Jean had obtained a good view of her face as she crossed the street,
and he shuddered. For in it he saw reflected the state of his own
tempestuous soul. He had read therein his own mind distempered by love
and doubt and torn by jealousy, disappointment, and despair.
He recalled the warning of Mlle. Fouchette, and he trembled for the
woman he loved. Well he comprehended the French character where love
and hatred are concerned.
At Rue Bezout the girl turned to the left, crossed over, and ran
rather than walked towards Avenue Montsouris. Jean ran until he
reached the corner, then cautiously peeped around it. Had he not done
so he would have come upon her, for she had stopped within two metres
and fumbled nervously with a package. He could hear her panting and
murmuring in her deep voice. She tore the string from the package with
her teeth and threw the paper wrapper on the ground.
It was a bottle of bluish liquid.
His heart stood still as he saw it; his legs almost failed him. If he
had seen the intended victim of this diabolical design approaching at
that moment he felt that he would scarcely have the strength to cry
out in warning, so overwhelmed was he with the horror of it.
What should he do? Would they come this way, or by Montsouris? He
might fall upon her suddenly,--overpower her where she stood!
Jean softly peeped once more around the angle of the wall. She was
trying to extract the cork from the bottle with a pair of tiny
scissors, but, being half frantic with haste and passion, she had only
broken one point after the other.
A sweet and silvery laugh behind him sent his heart into his throat.
It was Lerouge and Mlle. Remy coming leisurely along the Rue Hallé. It
was now or----
But a second glance over his shoulder showed that they had turned down
the narrow Rue Dareau. Madeleine had made a mistake.
Almost at the same instant a piercing shriek of agony burst upon the
night. The scream seemed to split his ears, so near was it, so deep
the pain and terror of it.
And there lay the miserable woman writhing on the walk, tearing out
great wisps of her dark hair in her intolerable suffering, and filling
the air with heart-rending cries of distress.