Jean Marot was not, as has been seen, an extraordinary type of his
countrymen. Sensitive, sympathetic, impulsive, passionate, extreme in
all things, he embodied in method and temperament the characteristics
of his race.
His first impulse upon realizing what had befallen the misguided girl
of Rue Monge was the impulse common to humanity. But as he flew to her
succor he saw others running from various directions, attracted by her
cries and moved by the same motive.
To be found there would not only be useless but dangerous,--for the
girl as well as for himself. Therefore he discreetly took to his
heels.
Flight at such a moment is confession of guilt. So it followed quite
naturally that a comprehension of what had happened sent a
considerable portion of the first-comers after the fleeing man.
"Assassin!"
"Vitrioleur!"
"Stop him!"
These are very inspiring cries with a clamorous French mob to howl
them. To be caught under such circumstances is to run imminent risk of
summary punishment. And the vitriol-thrower is not an uncommon feature
of Parisian criminal life; there would be little hesitation where one
is caught, as it were, red-handed.
Jean ran these possibilities through his mind as he dashed down a side
street into the Avenue Montsouris. Fear did not exactly lend him
wings, but it certainly did not retard his flight. And he had the
additional advantage that he was not yelling at every jump and lost no
time in false direction. He doubled by way of Rue Dareau, cut into Rue
de la Tombe-Issoire over the net-work of railway tracks, and then
dropped into a walk. But not so soon that he escaped the observation
of a police agent standing in the shadow in the next narrow turning
towards the railway station. The officer heard his panting breath long
before Jean got near him, and rightly conjectured that the student was
running away from something. To detain him for an explanation was an
obvious duty.
"Well, now! Monsieur seems to be in a hurry," said he, as he suddenly
stepped in front of the fugitive.
This official apparition would have startled even a man who was not in
a hurry, but Jean quickly recovered his self-possession.
"Yes, monsieur; I go for a doctor. A sick----"
"Pardon! but you have just passed the hospital. That won't do, young
man!"
The agent made a gesture to seize his suspect, but at that moment Jean
saw two other agents in the distance walking rapidly to join their
comrade. He upper-cut the man sharply, catching him squarely on the
point of the chin and sending him to grass with a mangled and bleeding
tongue.
There appeared to be no help for it, but the young man now had two
fresh pursuers. At any rate, he was free. It would be to his shame, he
thought, if he could not distance two men in heavy cowhide boots,
encumbered with cloaks and sabres. So he started down the Rue de la
Tombe-Issoire with a lead of some two hundred yards. He saw lights and
a crowd and heard music in the Place St. Jacques, and knew that he was
saved.
The Place St. Jacques was en fête. A band-stand occupied the spot long
sacred to the guillotine, up to its last removal to La Roquette. The
immediate neighborhood of Place St. Jacques would have preferred the
guillotine and an occasional execution as a holiday enjoyment, but
next to witnessing the sanguinary operation of the "national razor," a
dance was the popular idea of amusement. And the Parisian populace
must be amused. The government considers that a part of its duty, and
encourages the "bal du carrefour" by the erection of stands and
providing music at the general expense. It was the saturnine humor of
Place St. Jacques to dance where men lost their heads. However, it
would be difficult to find a street crossing in Paris big enough to
dance in that had not been through the centuries soaked with human
blood.
It was a little fresher in Place St. Jacques, that was all.
The band-stand being on the exact place marked in the stone pavement
for the guillotine, it gave a sort of peculiar piquancy to the
occasion. While the proprietors of the adjacent wine-shops and "zincs"
grumbled at the new order of things, the young people were making the
best of Mardi Gras in hilarious fashion.
Though Place St. Jacques presented a lively scene beneath its
scattered lights, it was one common enough to Jean Marot, who now only
saw in the romping crowd and spectators the means of shaking off his
police pursuers. Among the hundred dancers he made his way to the most
compact body of lookers-on, where the indications were that something
unusually interesting was in progress. Here the blown condition of a
student would not be noticed.
Yells of delight from those in his immediate vicinity awoke his
curiosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of the
figure this expression grew enthusiastic.
"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus.
"Très bien! très bien!"
"It is well done, that!"
"Yes,--it is the Savatière!"
Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back to
him the beginning of his bitter day.
So it was Mlle. Fouchette.
She made, with another girl of her set, a part of a quadrille, and the
pair were showing off the agile accomplishments of the semi-professionals
of the Bullier and Moulin Rouge. These consisted of kicking off the
nearest hats, doing the split, the guitar act, the pointed arch, and
similar fantasies. Having forced his way in, Jean was instantly
recognized by Mlle. Fouchette, who shook the confetti out of her blonde
hair at every pose. Then, as she executed a pigeon-wing on his corner,
she whispered,--
"Hold, Monsieur Jean,--wait one moment!"
"Will monsieur be good enough to take my place for the last figure?"
Her partner, a thin, serious-looking young man, had approached Jean
hat in hand and addressed him with courtly politeness.
Jean protested with equal politeness,--yet the offer served his turn
admirably,--no! no!--and the mademoiselle, monsieur?
"Come, then!" cried that damsel, as the last figure began, and she
seized Jean by the arm and half swung him into position.
The polite monsieur immediately disappeared in the crowd.
The French are born dancers. There are young Frenchmen here who would
be the admiration of the ballet-master. Frenchmen dance for the pure
love of motion. They prefer an agile partner of the softer sex, but it
is not essential,--they will dance with each other, or even alone, and
on the pavements of Paris as well as on the waxed floor of a
ball-room.
Jean Marot was, like many students of the Quartier Latin, not only a
lover of Terpsichore, but proficient in the art of using his legs for
something more agreeable than running. There were difficult steps and
acrobatic feats introduced by Mlle. Fouchette which he could execute
quite as easily and gracefully. And thus it happened that the young
man who three minutes before had been fleeing the police was now swept
away into the general frivolity of Place St. Jacques. In fact, he had
already absolutely forgotten that he had come there a fugitive.
Mlle. Fouchette had just joyously challenged him to make the "arc aux
pieds" with her,--which is to pose foot against foot in midair while
the other dancers pass beneath,--when Jean noticed a keen-eyed police
agent looking at him attentively.
[Illustration: SHE SEIZED JEAN BY THE ARM]
"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently, and up went his
foot against the neat little boot, and the other six passed merrily
beneath.
When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whispered
together earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibi
stood.
Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as they
walked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt at
concealment.
"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking of
Madeleine?"
Jean shivered. Poor Madeleine!
"What a fool a girl is to run after a man who doesn't care for her!"
"And when a man runs after a girl who doesn't care for him?" he asked,
half seriously.
"Oh, then he's worse than a fool woman,--he's a man, monsieur."
They reached her neighborhood.
"Come up, monsieur, will you? It is but a poor hospitality I can
offer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-ce
pas?"
"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle."
Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded to
let them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired.
When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up the
easy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on the
bed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small round
oil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at her
inquiringly.
"It is Poupon," said she.
"Oh! it's Poupon, is it?"
"Yes. It's a darling, isn't she?"
"It--she--is."
"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"
She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a single
griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great
complacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side.
"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was
demanded of him.
"When I cook I put it in the chimney."
"But you have other fire in winter?"
"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear,--and then, really, one goes to the
cafés every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the
studios, because of the models."
"Oh!"
"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a
warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And
I can have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine,
monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here," she
continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is
quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"
She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a
cupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboard
was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being
covered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below.
"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed," said he,
"but--but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"
"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon?
Monsieur shall see."
She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the little
oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.
Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her
without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he
seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his
mind from sinking into its recent despondency.
"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you
are not going to try to cook on that thing!"
"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, chérie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"
Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and
domestic friend,--the worst that could be said of which friend was
that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,--but it did not
interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette.
She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were
temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish
of olives.
"But----"
"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something."
"You need not have cooked anything," he protested. "A bit of bread and
wine would have----"
"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieur
thinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love----"
"Mademoiselle!"
"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise,--and--now, the omelette,
monsieur. Let me help you."
They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two glasses of
wine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finally
observing, with a smile,--
"It can't be Madeleine----"
"Oh! to the devil with----" but he checked himself by the sudden
recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine.
Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of his
confusion.
"Is it necessary, then," he asked, cynically, "that I should be in
love with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceive
her.
"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate--one."
"Both, perhaps," he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette and
I hate your questions."
"You hate Monsieur Lerouge, therefore you love where he is concerned."
He was silent. It was evident that he did not care to discuss his
private affairs with Mlle. Fouchette.
The girl was quick to see this and changed the conversation to
politics. But Jean had no mind for this either. He began to grow
impatient, when she opened a box on the mantel and showed him an
assortment of pipes.
"Oho! You keep a petit tabac?"
"One has some friends, monsieur."
"A good many, I should judge,--each of whom leaves a pipe, indicating
an early and regular return."
"I don't find yours here yet, monsieur," she replied, demurely.
"But you will," said he. "And I'll come up and smoke it occasionally,
if you'll let me."
"With pleasure, monsieur, even if you had not saved my life----"
"There! Stop that, now. Let us never speak of that, mademoiselle. You
got me into a scrape and got me out again, so we are quits."
"But----"
"Say no more about it, mademoiselle."
"I may _think_ about it, I suppose," she suggested, with affected
satire.
"There,--tell me about the pipes."
"Oh, yes. Well, you know how men hate to part with old pipes? And they
are, therefore, my valuable presents, monsieur."
"Truly! I never thought of that."
"No?"
"And the pictures?"
"Scraps from the studios."
He got up and examined the sketches on the walls. They were from pen,
pencil, and brush, from as many artists,--some quite good and showing
more or less budding genius. He paused some time before the head of
his entertainer.
"It is very good,--admirable!" he said.
"You think so, monsieur?"
"It is worth all the rest together, mademoiselle."
"So much? You are an artist, Monsieur Jean?"
"Amateur,--strictly amateur,--yet I know something of pictures. Now, I
should say that bit is worth, say, one hundred francs."
"Nonsense! The work of five minutes of--amusement; yes, making fun of
me one day. Do you suppose he would give me one hundred francs?"
"The highest effects in art are often merest accident, or the result
of the spirit of the moment,--some call it inspiration."
"But if you didn't know who did it, monsieur----"
"It is not signed."
"N-no; but, monsieur, every one must know his work."
"Yes, and every one knows that some of it is bad."
"Oh!"
"And this is----"
"Bad too, monsieur," she laughingly interrupted. "When any one offers
me fifty francs for that thing, Monsieur Jean, it goes!"
"Then it is mine," said Jean.
"No! You joke, monsieur," she protested, turning away.
"Not at all," said he, tendering her a fresh, crisp billet de banque
for fifty francs. "Voilà! Is that a joke?"
Mlle. Fouchette colored slightly and drew back.
"Monsieur likes the picture?"
"Why, certainly. If I didn't----"
"Then it is yours, monsieur, if you will deign to accept it as
a--present----"
"No, no!"
"As a souvenir, monsieur."
"Nonsense! I will not do it," he declared. "Come, mademoiselle, you
are trying to back out of your offer of a minute ago. Here! Is it mine
or is it not? Say!"
"It is yours, monsieur, in any case," she said, in a low voice,
"though you would have done me a favor not to press me with money.
Besides, 'La Petite Chatte' is not worth it."
"I differ with you, mademoiselle; I simply get a picture cheap."
Which was true. There was no sentiment in his offer, and she saw it as
she carefully folded the bank-note and put it away with a sigh. It was
a great deal of money for her, but still----
There was a great noise at the iron knocker below. This had been
repeated for the third time.
"My friends below are growing impatient," he thought.
Jean had that inborn hatred of authority so common to many of his
countrymen. It often begins in baiting the police, and sometimes ends
in the overthrow of the government.
"Whoever that is," observed the girl, "he will never get in,--never!"
"Good!" said Jean.
"He won't get in," she repeated, listening. "Monsieur Benoit will
never let anybody in who makes a racket like that."
"Not even the police?"
"No,--he will not hear them."
"Oh! ho! ho! ho!" roared Jean; "not hear that!"
"I mean he would affect not to know that it was the police."
She went to a window and listened at the shutter. Then, returning to
her guest, who was placidly smoking,--
"It is the police, sure."
"I knew it."
"Now, what do you suppose the agents want at this hour?" It was one
o'clock by the little bronze timepiece on the mantel.
"Me," said Jean.
"You!" She glanced at him with a smile of incredulity.
"Yes, petite."
He puffed continuous rings towards the ceiling, wondering whether he
had better explain.
Presently came a tap at the door. The girl hastened to answer it,
while Jean refilled his pipe thoughtfully. When she came back she was
more excited. She whispered,--
"Monsieur Benoit, le concierge, he wants to see you,--he must let them
in!"
"Well, let them in!" exclaimed the young man.
He had thought of Madeleine, chiefly, and the effect of his arrest
upon her. A hearing must inevitably lead to her exposure, if not to
his. But it was useless to endeavor to escape. He felt that he was
trapped. Being in that fix, he may as well face the music.
"But he wants to see you personally," said the girl.
Jean went to the door, where the saturnine Benoit stood with his
flaring candle. The man cautiously closed the inner vestibule door.
"S-sh! It is a souricière, monsieur, as I suspected when you came in
with that little she-devil! The agents were at your heels. Now,
Monsieur Lerouge, do you wish to escape or do you----"
"I intend to remain right here. There is no reason that I should
become a fugitive."
"As you please, monsieur," replied the concierge, with an expressive
shrug. And the clack of his sabots was soon heard on the stone stair.
"Funny," said Jean, re-entering, "but he takes me for Lerouge. There
is some sort of understanding between them. He would have aided me to
escape."
"And why not have accepted, monsieur?" asked Mlle. Fouchette.
"I would rather be a prisoner as Jean Marot than escape as Henri
Lerouge," replied the young man.
"Anyhow," muttered the girl, "perhaps the police have made the same
mistake."
"I'm afraid not," said Jean.
Mlle. Fouchette regarded the young man admiringly from the corner of
her eye. He was so calm and resolute. He had resumed the easy-chair
and pipe.
Mlle. Fouchette was not able to veil her feelings under this cloak of
indifference. Her highly nervous organization was sensibly disturbed.
One might have easily presumed that she was in question instead of
Jean Marot. She had hastily cleared the little table and replaced the
lamp, when her unwelcome visitors announced themselves. Mlle.
Fouchette promptly confronted them at the door.
"Well, gentlemen?"
"Mademoiselle, pardon. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am after the
body of one M. Lerouge."
"Then why don't you go and get him?" snapped the girl.
"Pardieu! that is precisely why we are here, mon enfant. He----"
"He is not here."
"Come, now, that will not do, mademoiselle. At least he was here a few
moments ago.--Where is that dolt Benoit?"
"M. Lerouge is not here, I tell you; never was here in his life!"
"Oh!"
It was M. Benoit, the concierge. His astonishment was undoubtedly
genuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error in
believing her a police decoy.
"Mademoiselle ought to know," he added, in reply to official inquiry.
"Let us see," exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and entering
the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A
rear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people on
the stairs.
The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe
simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant
look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal
her visitor.
"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.
"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is
not Monsieur Lerouge?"
"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"
"Jean Marot."
"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he
glanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men.
"Very well,--I'll take you as Jean Marot, then," he angrily added.
"Nevertheless," said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am not
Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is
all."
The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed
with evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright.
The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up,--
"Oho! now I see----"
"Dubat, shut up!"
"But, mon brigadier," persisted the man designated, "it is not the man
we took that night at Le Petit Rouge,--non!"
"Ah! là, là, là!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I
know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is
Marot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St.
Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Café du
Panthéon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so
it is said."
"That is very true," muttered the concierge,--"and I have made the
mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and
had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."
Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sous-brigadier that at
once attracted that consequential man's attention.
"Then, mademoiselle," he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you can
give us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"
"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau,--en quatrième."
M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as much
effect upon her as water might have on a duck's back.
Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street and
number in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latter
rose to take his departure,--
"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against Monsieur
Lerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"
"It is very serious, monsieur," replied the man, respectful enough
now; "a young woman has been blinded with vitriol."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I don't believe Lerouge could
have ever done that! No, never!"
"Nor I," said Jean.
The police officer merely raised his eyebrows slightly and observed,--
"It was in the Rue Dareau, monsieur."
"And the woman? Do they know----"
"One named Madeleine, mademoiselle."
"Madeleine!" cried the girl, with a white face. "Madeleine! Mon Dieu!
You hear that, Monsieur Jean? It was Madeleine!"
"Courage, mademoiselle; Lerouge never did that," said Jean, calmly.
"It is a mistake. He could not do that."
"Never! It is impossible!"
Mlle. Fouchette wrung her hands and sought his eyes in vain for some
explanation. She seemed overcome with terror.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed the police officer, in taking his leave.
"Mademoiselle, there is nothing impossible in Paris."