When the police, supported by the Garde de Paris, had finally swept
the boulevard clear of the mob, they found among the human débris two
men locked in each other's grasp, insensible. The imprint on two
throats showed with what desperate ferocity they had clung to each
other. Indeed, their hands were scarcely yet relaxed from exhaustion.
Their faces were black and their tongues protruded.
In the nearest pharmacy, where ambulances were being awaited by a
dozen others, Jean Marot quickly revived under treatment. The case of
Henri Lerouge, however, was more serious. He had received a severe cut
in the head early in the row and the young surgeon in charge feared
internal injuries. Artificial means were required to induce
respiration. This was restored slowly and laboriously. At the first
sign of life he murmured,--
"Andrée! Sister! Ah! my poor little sister!"
Jean roused himself. The sounds of voices and wheels came to him
indistinctly. Everything merged in these words,--
"Andrée! Sister!"
Then again all was blank.
When he revived he was first of all conscious of a gentle feminine
touch,--that subtle something which cools the fevered veins and
softens the pangs of suffering, mind and body.
He felt it rather as if it were a dream, and kept his eyes closed for
fear the dream would vanish. The hand softly bathed his head, which
consciously lay in a woman's lap. He remembered but one hand--his
mother's--that had soothed him thus, and the sweet souvenir provoked a
deep sigh.
"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured the voice of Mlle. Fouchette.
"L'hôpital ou dépôt?" inquired the nearest agent.
"Dépôt," said the sous-brigadier.
"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "See, messieurs; he is
wounded and weak, and----"
"One moment!"
A young surgeon knelt and applied his ear to the heaving breast, while
the police agents whispered among each other.
Mlle. Fouchette caught the words, "It is La Savatière," and smiled
faintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of open
eyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently.
"So! It--it is only Mademoiselle Fouchette. I----"
He saw the cloud that rose upon her face and heard the gentle humility
of her reply,--
"Yes, monsieur, it is only Fouchette. How do you find yourself,
Monsieur Jean?"
She put a flask of brandy to his lips and saw him swallow a mouthful
mechanically. Suddenly he raised himself to a sitting posture and
looked anxiously about.
"Where is he?"
"Who? Where is who, monsieur?"
"Lerouge. Why, he was here but now. Where is he?"
"Lerouge! That wretch!" cried the girl, with passion. "I could
strangle him!"
"Oh! no, no, no!" he interposed. "It is a mistake. His sister,
Fouchette----"
His glance was more than she could bear. She would have drawn him back
to her as a mother protects a sick child, only a rough hand
interposed.
"See! he raves, messieurs."
"Let him rave some more," said the sous-brigadier. "This is our
affair. So it was Monsieur Lerouge, was it? Very good! Henri Lerouge,
medical student, Quartier Latin, anarchist, turbulent fellow,
rascal,--well cracked this time!"
Jean looked from the girl to the man and laid himself back in her arms
without a word.
"Make a note," continued the police official,--"bad characters, both.
This man goes to dépôt!"
"For shame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette.
"And hear this!" added the sous-brigadier in an angry voice,--"if this
grisette of Rue St. Jacques gives you any of her guff run her in!"
"But--no, monsieur, that you will not! My business is here,--my
authority above your authority,--and here I will remain!"
"Show it!" demanded the official.
She regarded him wrathfully.
"Very well, mademoiselle," said he, choking back his anger. "I know my
duty and will not be interfered with by----"
"Gare à vous!" she interrupted, threateningly.
"Don't!" whispered Jean. "It is nothing. But tell me quickly,--has
Lerouge gone to prison?"
"Hôtel Dieu," she replied.
"Good! Go to his place, 7 Rue Dareau, you know,--tell
her,--Mademoiselle Remy,--his sister, Fouchette----"
She bent lower over his head, hiding her face from his sight.
"Ah! what a fool I have been, Fouchette! Tell her gently--that he is
injured--slightly, mind--and where he is. That's a good girl,
Fouchette,--good girl that you are!"
He could not see her face for the hair that fell over the bowed
head,--the living picture of the repentant Magdalen. But he felt her
warm breath upon his cheek, and, was it a tear that splashed hotly on
his neck?
But she merely pressed his hand for a reply and, disengaging her
dress, darted from the place.
Threading her way rapidly among the arriving and departing vans and
ambulances, the scattered remnants of the mob and the swarms of
shifting police agents, Mlle. Fouchette finally reached a street open
to traffic.
It was only at rare intervals that she indulged herself in a cab. This
was one of the times. Hailing the first-comer, she jumped in and
called out to the fat cabby, "Place Monge."
He drove thoughtfully as far as the next corner and then inquired over
his shoulder where Place Monge was. She stood up behind him and fairly
screamed in his ear,--
"Square Monge, espèce de melon! Quartier Latin!"
The bony horse started up at the sound of her voice as from the lash.
Evidently, Mlle. Fouchette was not in good temper. She had no relish
for the work of good-will cut out for her. She was disgusted at the
weakness of man. If she had been driver at that moment she would have
run down a few of them en route. Still, her cocher did his best.
At Place du Parvis Notre Dame she called out to him to stop. Getting
out, she bade him wait near by, and started down along the quai in
front of the Préfecture de Police. The man seemed suspicious and kept
a sharp eye on his fare. Just as he was about to follow the girl he
saw her start back, as if she had changed her mind.
She began to walk very rapidly towards him, looking neither to the
right nor to the left. A man in a soft hat who had just left the
Préfecture crossed the street in the opposite direction and, curiously
enough, though there was an empty desert of space in the vicinity, the
two jostled each other almost rudely and exchanged angry words.
After which the girl retook her place in the fiacre and said "Allons!"
in a subdued tone that strongly contrasted with her former acerbity.
"Sure!" said the cabby to himself,--"she's drunk." And he looked
forward to the near future rather gloomily.
His suspicion seemed more than justified when she again said Place
Monge instead of Square Monge, the former being nearly half a mile
farther. He almost collapsed when she finally got down and not only
handed him the legal fare without dispute but double the usual
pourboire.
"Toujours de même ces femmes-là!" he growled, philosophically. Which
meant that women were pretty much alike,--you never could tell what
one of them would do.
Mlle. Fouchette, quite indifferent at any time to the private judgment
of the cab-driving world, now silently and swiftly pursued the uneven
tenor of her thoughts, not yet manifest. She hurried along the sombre
walls of the giant caserne de la garde on the Rue Ortolan, plunged
across the crowded Rue Mouffetard, and entered the picturesque little
wine-shop on the corner.
It was a low, grim, two-story affair in time-worn stone, the door and
windows heavily grilled in the elaborate and artistic wrought-iron
work of the middle ages. A heavy oaken door supplemented the big
barred gate and added to the ancient prison-like appearance of the
place. Against the grilles of the Rue Mouffetard hung specimens of the
filthy illustrated Paris papers, either the pictures or text of which
would debar them from any respectable English-speaking community. Over
the door opening into the Rue du Pot de Fer and below a lamp of that
exquisite iron-work which is now one of the lost arts was displayed a
small bush, intimating that, in spite of the strong improbability,
good wine was to be had inside.
While a casual glance showed that the rooms above could not be high
enough of ceiling for an ordinary individual to stand upright, the
flowers in the little square recessed and grilled windows showed that
this upper portion was inhabited. It was connected with the wine-shop
below by a narrow and very much worn stone staircase, which ascended
"à tire-bouchon," or corkscrew fashion, like the steep steps of a
light-house.
As to the general reputation of the neighborhood, Mlle. Fouchette knew
it to be "assez mauvaise,"--tolerably bad,--though it was not this
knowledge that induced her to complete her journey on foot.
Her entrance caused a subdued but perceptible flutter among the
occupants of the resort. These were, at the moment, four
respectable-looking men in blouses, an old gentleman in the last stage
of genteel rustiness, and a couple of camelots in the second stage of
drunkenness,--that of undying friendship. The four, who appeared to be
worthy tradesmen of the neighborhood, occupied a far table in the
small and time-begrimed room, where they played at cards for small
stakes; the rusty old gentleman sat alone with a half-emptied
beer-glass and an evening newspaper before him; the street-hawkers
were standing at the zinc, which in Paris represents our American bar,
discussing the events of the day in the hoarse-lunged, insolent tone
of their class.
Presiding over the establishment was--yes, it was Madame Podvin.
Somewhat stouter, redder of face, more piggy of eye, with more decided
whiskers, but still Madame Podvin.
She busied herself behind the zinc washing glasses, occasionally
glancing at the men in the corner, smiling upon the inebriated
camelots, and now and then casting a suspicious eye upon the quiet old
gentleman behind his beer.
Madame Podvin had retired from the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers upon the
retirement of Monsieur Podvin from public life by the State, and had
found this congenial city resort vacant by reason of death,--the
proprietor having been stabbed by one of his friendly customers over
the question of pay for a drink of four sous.
Upon the entrance of Mlle. Fouchette Madame Podvin tapped the zinc
sharply with the glass as if to knock something out of it, then
greeted the new-comer effusively.
The four men hastily gathered up their stakes and began talking about
the weather; the subdued camelots sipped their absinthe in silence;
the old gentleman fell to reading his paper with renewed interest.
"Bonjour, madame," said Mlle. Fouchette, smilingly ignoring the
private signal, though inwardly vexed.
"Mademoiselle Fouchette! Ah! how charming of you!" exclaimed Madame
Podvin, hastily wiping her hands and coming around the open end of the
bar to embrace her visitor.
Beneath the most elaborate politeness the Parisian conceals the
bitterest hatred. French politeness is mostly superficial at best,--it
often scarcely hides a cynicism that stings without words, a satire
that bites to the verge of insult. The more Frenchwomen dislike each
other the more formal and overpowering their compliments--if they do
not come to blows.
"Thank you very much, madame," Mlle. Fouchette replied, as Madame
Podvin kissed her cheeks. "Ah! you are always so gay and delightful,
madame!"
"And how lovely you have grown to be!" exclaimed the Podvin, with a
good show of enthusiasm, holding the girl off at arm's length for
inspection. "It seems impossible that you should have come out of a
rag-heap! And your sweet disposition----"
Madame Podvin elevated her hands in sheer despair of being able to
describe it.
"It must go well with you, madame, you are always so amiable and
cheerful," retorted Mlle. Fouchette.
"But you are more lovely every day you grow older," said Madame
Podvin.
"Ah! Madame does not grow older!"
"Fouchette, chérie, I'm sure you must belong to a good family, you are
so naturally winning and well-bred. The clothes you had on when I
found you----"
"Madame?"
"I gave them away--for twenty--yes, it was twenty francs--they were
not worth as many sous--to a gentleman----"
Madame Podvin stopped at the sight of Mlle. Fouchette's face; but,
uncertain whether the subject pained, interested, or irritated the
latter, she continued,----
"It was shortly after you left. He was very curious,--one of these
government spies, you know, Fouchette----"
"Madame, I would see Mademoiselle Madeleine," interrupted the other.
Madame Podvin frowned.
"Not sick, I hope," added Fouchette.
"Oh! no; only----"
"Drinking?"
"Like a fish!"
"Poor Madeleine!"
"She's a beast!" cried Madame Podvin.
Madame Podvin sold vile liquor but despised the fools who drank it,
and in this she was not singular.
"Is she----" Mlle. Fouchette raised her eyes heavenward inquiringly.
"No,--she's in the street. Ever since she got out of the hospital she
has been going from bad to worse every day. And she owes me two weeks'
lodging. If she doesn't pay up soon I'll----"
Whatever the Podvin intended to do with Madeleine she left it unsaid,
for the latter stood in the doorway.
Great, indeed, was the change which had come over this unfortunate
girl. Stout to repulsiveness, shabby of attire, fiery of face,
unsteady of pose, with one bright beautiful eye burning with the
supernatural fire of absinthe, the other sealed in internal darkness.
"Oh! Madeleine----" began Mlle. Fouchette, painfully impressed and
hesitating.
"What! No! Fouchette? Mon ange!"
The drunken woman staggered forward to embrace her friend.
"Why, Madeleine----"
"Hold! And first tell me your bad news. You know you always bring me
bad news, deary. You hunt me up when you have bad news. Come, now!"
"Là, là, là, là!" trilled Mlle. Fouchette, passing her arm around the
other's thick waist to gain time.
"Come! mon ange,--we'll have a drink anyhow. Mère! some absinthe,--we
have thirst."
"No, no; not now, Madeleine."
"Not a drop here!" said Madame Podvin, seeing that Mlle. Fouchette was
not disposed to pay.
"Not now," interposed the latter,--"a little later. I want a word or
two with you, Madeleine, first. Just two minutes!"
The one brilliant orb regarded the girl intently, as if it would dive
into her soul; but the habitual good-nature yielded.
"Very well. Come then, chérie,--à l'impériale!"
And, indeed, the narrow, spiral stair more closely resembled that
which leads to the impériale of the Paris omnibus than anything found
in the modern house.
The space above was divided in four, the first part being the small
antechamber, dimly lighted from the roof, which they now entered.
Through a door to the right they were in a room one-third of which was
already occupied by an iron camp-bed. The rest of the furniture
consisted of a little iron washstand, a chair, and some sort of a box
covered with very much soiled chintz that was once pretty. Above this
latter article of furniture was a small shelf, on which were
coquettishly arranged a folding mirror and other cheap articles of
toilet. A few fans of the cheap Japanesque variety were pinned here
and there in painful regularity. A cheap holiday skirt and other
feminine belongings hung on the wall over the cot. In the small,
square, recessed window opening on Rue Mouffetard were pots of
flowering plants that gave an air of refinement and comfort to a place
otherwise cheerless and miserable.
And over all of this poverty and wretchedness hung a blackened ceiling
so low that the feather of Mlle. Fouchette swept it,--so low and dark
and heavy and lugubrious that it seemed to threaten momentarily to
crush out what little human life and happiness remained there.
Madeleine silently motioned her visitor to the chair and threw
herself on the creaking bed. She waited, suspiciously.
"The riots, you know, Madeleine," began Mlle. Fouchette.
"Dame! There is always rioting. One hears, but one doesn't mind."
"Unless one has friends, Madeleine----"
The maimed and half-drunken woman tried to straighten up.
"Well? Out with it, Fouchette. If one has friends in the row----"
"Why, then we feel an interest in our friends, n'est-ce pas?"
"It is about Lerouge!"
"Yes, Madeleine, I want----"
"Is he hurt?"
"Yes,--badly,--and is at the Hôtel Dieu. I want his address. He has
moved from 7 Rue Dareau since the police--since----"
"You want his address for the police," said the girl.
"Oh! no! no! not for that, dear!"
"Not for that; then what for? Tell me why you want it."
This was exactly what Mlle. Fouchette evidently did not desire to do.
Madeleine saw it, and added firmly,--
"Tell me first, then--well, then I'll see."
"I will, then," rejoined the other, savagely.
"Speak!"
"I wish to notify his sister."
Madeleine looked at the speaker fixedly, as if still waiting for her
to begin; stupidly, for her poor muddled brain refused to comprehend.
Mlle. Fouchette continued,--
"I say I wish to go to his place," she said, with great deliberation,
"and notify his sister that her brother is injured and is lying at
Hôtel Dieu. I promised. It is important. Believing you knew the
address I have come to you. You will help me, for his sister's
sake,--for his sake, Madeleine? You know his sister lives with
him----"
"You--you said his sister----"
But the voice choked. The words came huskily, like a death-rattle in
her throat.
"Yes, sister," began again Mlle. Fouchette. But she was almost afraid
now. The aspect of her listener's face was enough to touch even a
harder heart than possessed this not too tender bearer of ill news.
However, Madeleine would have heard nothing more. She gazed vacantly
at the opposite wall, a knee between her hands, and swaying slightly
to and fro. Her face, bloated with drink, had become almost pale, and
was the picture of long-settled grief. It was as if she were in fresh
mourning for the long ago.
Presently a solitary tear from the unseen and unseeing eye stole out
of its dark retreat and rolled slowly and reluctantly down upon the
cheek and stopped and dried there.
Mlle. Fouchette saw it as the weather observer sees the moisture on
the glass and speculated on the character of the coming storm.
She was disappointed. For instead of an explosion Madeleine suddenly
rose and began fumbling among the garments on the wall without a word.
She selected the best from her humble wardrobe and laid the pieces
out one by one on the bed, then began rapidly to divest herself of
what she wore.
When interrogated by the wondering Fouchette she never replied.
Indeed, she no longer appeared to notice that her visitor was there.
She bathed her face, and washed her hands, and scrubbed her white
teeth, and carefully rearranged her hair. All of this with a calmness
and precision of a perfectly sober woman,--as she now undoubtedly was.
She then resumed her hat.
"How!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, noting this quiet preparation with
growing astonishment,--"not going out?"
"Yes," replied the girl.
"But, dear, you have not yet given me the address."
"It is unnecessary."
"But, Madeleine!"
"It is unnecessary, Fouchette. I will go and see his--his sister and
lead her to him."
"But, deary!"
"And I will go alone," she added, looking at the other for the first
time.
Unmindful of the wheedling voice of remonstrance, without another
word, and leaving her door wide open and Mlle. Fouchette to follow or
not at her pleasure, the miserable girl gained the street and swiftly
sped away through the falling shadows of the night.