It would not be easy to define the sentiments or state the
expectations of Mlle. Fouchette. Whatever they were, she would have
been unable to formulate them herself.
Mlle. Fouchette was simply and insensibly conforming to her manner of
life. She was drifting. She did not know where. She never thought of
towards what end or to what purpose.
Those who know woman best never assume to reduce her to the logical
rules which govern the mathematical mind, but are always prepared for
the little eccentricities which render her at once so charming and
uncertain. The Frenchwoman perhaps carries this uncertainty to a
higher state of perfection than her sex of any other nationality.
That Mlle. Fouchette was the possessor of that indefinable something
people call heart had never been so much as suspected by those with
whom she had come in intimate contact. It had certainly never
inconvenienced her up to this time. To have gone to her for sympathy
would have been deemed absurd. Even in her intense enjoyment of "la
vie joyeuse" her natural coldness did not endear her to those who
shared her society for the moment. As a reigning favorite of the
Bohemian set she would have earned the dislike of her sex; but this
was greatly accentuated by her repute as an honest girl. The worst of
these "filles du quartier" observed the proprieties, were sticklers
for the forms of respectability. And Mlle. Fouchette, who was really
good, trampled upon everything and everybody that stood in her way.
As to her income from the studios, bah! and again bah!
Then what was Mlle. Fouchette?
That was the universal feminine inquiry.
Mlle. Fouchette appeared to Jean Marot in a vaguely kaleidoscopic way
as a woman of no account possessing good points. Sometimes she
appeared to be cold, sly, vicious, and wholly unconscionable; again,
good-hearted, self-sacrificing, sympathetic. But he did not bother
about her particularly, though he covertly watched her this morning
preparing breakfast. It was true, her blonde hair did not look as if
it had been touched by comb or brush, that she wore pantoufles that
exposed holes in the heels of her stockings, that her wrapper was
soiled and gaped horribly between buttons on and off its frontage;
but, then, what woman is perfect before breakfast?
All this did not seriously detract from the fact that she had gone out
of her way to look after him the day before. Nor did it explain that
she had this morning invested herself with these slovenly belongings,
taken in the demi-litre of milk that ornamented her door-knob, gone
down into the street for additional "petits pains," added a couple of
eggs "à la coque" to the usual morning menu, set Poupon to work on the
café-au-lait, and was now putting the finishing touches to her little
table in anticipation of the appetite of her awaking guest.
"Bonjour, my little housekeeper."
"Ah! bonjour, Monsieur Jean. Have you rested well? What a lazy man!
You look well this morning, monsieur."
"Oh, yes; and why not, mon enfant?" said he, straightening up somewhat
stiffly.
"And your poor bones?" she laughingly inquired, referring to the
improvised couch. "It is not a comfortable bed for one like monsieur."
"It is luxury unspeakable compared to the bed I had anticipated early
last evening. I never slept better in all my life."
"Good!" said she.
"And I'm hungry."
"Better!" said she. "Here is a clean towel and here is water," showing
him her modest toilet arrangement, "and here is petite Poupon
scolding----"
"'Poupon'? 'scolding'?"
"Yes, monsieur. Have you, then, forgotten poor little Poupon? For
shame!" With mock indignation.
She took the small blue teakettle, which had already begun to "scold,"
and, stooping over the hearth, made the coffee. She then dropped the
two eggs in the same teakettle and consulted the clock.
"Hard or soft?" she asked.
"Minute and a half," he replied in the folds of the towel.
She was pouring the coffee back through the strainer in order to get
the full strength of it, though it already looked as black as tar and
strong enough to float an iron wedge. At the same time she saw him
before her glass attentively examining the marks on his throat, now
even more distinctly red than on the night before. But she knew
instinctively that his thoughts were not of his own, but of another
neck.
Breakfast was not the lively repast of the previous evening. In the
best of circumstances breakfast is a pessimistic meal. The world never
looks the same as it appeared at yesterday's dinner.
Jean had risen to a falling barometer. The first ebullition of joy at
having been spared the slaughter of his friend and the brother of the
girl he loved had passed and the real future stared him in the face.
He began to entertain doubts as to whether a single glance from a pair
of blue eyes was a solid foundation for the magnificent edifice he had
erected thereon. But Jean Marot was intensely egoist and was prone to
regard that which he wanted as already his.
Mlle. Fouchette was facing the same question on her own account,--a
fact which she concealed from both as far as possible by making
herself believe it was his affair exclusively. As it is always easier
to grapple with the difficulties of others than with our own, she soon
found means to encourage her illusion.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You are not at all a woman----"
"What, then, monsieur, if I am not----"
"Wait! I mean not at all like other women," he hastily interposed.
"Par exemple?"
"Because, first, you have not once said 'I told you so,'--not
reproached me for disregarding your advice."
"No? But that would be unnecessary. You are punished. Next?"
"Well, you let me remain here."
"Why not?"
She opened the steel-blue eyes on him sharply,--so sharply, in fact,
that Jean Marot either could not just then remember why not or that he
did not care to say. But she relieved him of that embarrassment very
quickly.
"If you mean that I should be afraid of you, monsieur, or that I would
have thought for a moment----"
"Oh! no, no, no! I do not mean that, of course. It was the fear women
have of others----"
"What do I care for 'others'!" she snapped, scornfully. "Pray,
Monsieur Jean, are there, then, 'others' who care anything about me?
No! Ask them. No! I do what I please. And I account to nobody.
Understand? Nobody!"
Mlle. Fouchette brought the small, thin white hand down upon the table
with a slap that gave sufficient assurance of her sincerity, at the
same time giving a happy idea of her immeasurable contempt for
society.
"But, my dear Mademoiselle Fouchette, I, at least, care for
you,--only----"
"Là, là, là! Only you don't care quite enough, Monsieur Jean, to take
my advice," she interrupted. "Is not that it?"
"If I don't I shall be the loser, I'm afraid," he replied,
lugubriously.
"And then I should be sorry."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because I am not worthy of it. Now answer me."
"Well, because it pleases me," she responded, with a smile. "You know
what I said but a moment ago? I do what I please and account to
nobody."
"Very well. Now, does it please your Supreme Highness to continue to
shower the blessing of your royal favor upon me?"
"For to-day, perhaps; if you obey my imperious will, monsieur."
He prolonged the comedy by kneeling on one knee and saying humbly, "I
am your most obedient subject. Command!"
"Bring me my clothes, monsieur."
"Er--wha-at? clothes?" he stammered.
"I said clothes,--on the bed there. Lay them out on the couch,
please."
He found her simple wardrobe of the previous day on the bed--the
skirt, the little bolero, the hat with the feather--and laid them out
on the couch one by one with mock care and ceremony.
"There!"
"Shake them out, monsieur."
"Yes, your Highness."
She was putting away the last breakfast things when she heard an
exclamation.
"Red!" said he. "And beard, too, as I'm a sinner!"
He had found a tuft of red beard twisted in the fastening of the
bolero. The expression on his face would have defied words. As for
Mlle. Fouchette, she was for a moment of the same color of the
telltale hair. For some reason she did not wish Jean to know of her
part in the riot. At the same time she was angry with herself for the
womanly feeling of delicacy that surged into her cheeks.
"Where did you get it?" he asked, quizzically.
"Monsieur! Go away!"
"I didn't know you'd been decorated, mademoiselle,--really,--Legion of
Honor, too!"
"Bah! I must have given some man a good pull in the crowd," said she.
"How provoking!"
"For him, doubtless, yes."
"To return to your affairs, Monsieur Jean," she said, grabbing the
garments and proceeding to put them on with that insouciance begotten
of studio life. "Have you any money?"
"With me? Not a sou!"
She slipped her hand down her neck and drew forth a small bag held
there by a string and took from it a coin, which she tendered him.
"Here is a louis,--you may repay it when you can."
"Thank you, my child. But it is not necessary. I can get some money at
the Crédit Lyonnais."
"But, monsieur, you can't walk there! And we will be busy to-day."
"Oh, we will be busy, will we?"
"Yes,--unless you rebel," she replied, significantly.
"At least, your Highness will let me know----"
"First, we must go and find out how Lerouge is----"
"Good!"
"Next, see an agent about your place. You are to sell your lease, you
know, and furniture----"
"And furniture,--very well. After?"
"And then we must find you a new place,--cheaper, don't you know?"
"A good deal cheaper," he said.
"In this quarter they are cheapest."
"Then let it be in the quarter."
"Voilà! Now that's all right." A remark which may have equally applied
to his affairs or to the putting on of her shoes.
"A very simple appartement will serve," he observed, when she sounded
him on his idea of cheapness.
"There is a lovely one de garçon next door to me, but it is dear. It
is a little parlor, bedroom, and kitchen. And this is a quiet house,
monsieur."
"Good! I like quietude, and----"
"Oh, it is a very quiet place," she assured him.
"This appartement,--dining-room?"
"No! What does a man alone want with a dining-room? Let him eat in the
parlor."
"Yes, that would be luxury," he admitted.
"One doesn't need the earth in order to eat and sleep."
"N-no; but how much is this luxury of the Rue St. Jacques?" he
inquired.
"It is four hundred francs, I believe." She heaved a sigh of regret.
It seemed a large sum of money to Mlle. Fouchette.
"Four hundred a year? Only four hundred a year! Parbleu! And now what
can one get for four hundred a year, ma petite Fouchette?"
"S-sh! monsieur,--a good deal!" she exclaimed, smiling at his naïveté.
With all his patronizing airs she instinctively felt that this man who
treated her as if she were a child was really a provincial who needed
both mother and business agent.
"I'd like to see it, anyhow," said he.
"At once, monsieur,--so you shall; but it is dear, four hundred
francs, when you might get the same at Montrouge for two hundred and
fifty francs. Here,--I have the key,--le voilà!"
It was the appartement of three rooms next door to her chamber, which
seemed to have been cut off from it as something superfluous in the
Rue St. Jacques.
"Why--and Monsieur de Beauchamp is----"
"Gone."
"Yesterday?"
"Yesterday afternoon,--yes. Quite sudden, was it not?"
She said this as though it was of no importance.
"The huissier?" he suggested, official ejectment being the most common
cause of student troubles.
She laughed secretively.
"The police?"
Then she laughed openly--her pretty little silvery tinkle--and drew
his attention to the kitchen.
It was a small dark place with a much-worn tile floor and a charcoal
range of two pockets faced and covered with blue and white tiles; an
immense hood above yawning like the flat open jaws of a gigantic
cobra, which might not only consume all the smoke and smells but
gobble up the little tile-covered range itself upon gastronomical
provocation.
"Isn't it just lovely!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, delightedly. "And
see! here is a stone sink, and there's water and gas."
Water and gas are still deemed luxuries in the more ancient quarters
of Paris. As for baths, they are for the rich,--even the more modern
structures are parsimonious of baths. You realize all this when in a
close omnibus, or smell some well-dressed Parisienne ten feet away.
When one of the dwellers of Rue St. Jacques takes a bath a battered
old tub is brought around on a wagon and unloaded in the court with a
noise and ceremony that arouses the entire neighborhood, which puts
its head out of the window and wonders who is going to be married.
"And here's a private closet, too," continued Mlle.
Fouchette,--"everything! But that sweet little stove! I could cook a
course dinner on that!"
"Oh, you could, eh?" inquired Jean. "Then you shall."
"Surely!" said the girl, as if it were settled from the first.
"Besides, it is so much more economical for two than one."
"Oh, is it?" he replied, doubtfully.
"Of course, if one lives at expensive restaurants. And in bad weather
or when one feels grumpy----"
They looked at the large bedroom and small anteroom, or toilet-room
adjoining, which Mlle. Fouchette declared was good enough for a lord,
inspected the closets, commented on the excellent condition of the
polished floors and newly papered walls, and finally decided that it
really was a good deal for the money.
"It could be made a little paradise," said she, enthusiastically.
"Needing the angels," he suggested.
"Possibly; but one can get along very comfortably without them."
"But I wonder why M. de Beauchamp, installed here so comfortably day
before yesterday, should be missing to-day. There must be some
drawback here----"
"Oh, no. The truth is, M. de Beauchamp thought he saw--in fact, M. de
Beauchamp did see visions. In one of these he was foretold of a
possible difference of opinion between himself and the government;
about something that was to have happened yesterday and didn't
happen----"
"Did not happen. Go on."
"There, Monsieur Jean," she concluded, "that is all. Only, you see, M.
de Beauchamp's arrangements having been made, he probably thought he
might as well disappear----"
"And his studio with him."
"Precisely. Look what a nice big closet in the wall!"
"Yes,--funny. But, I say, mon enfant, was this handsome M. de
Beauchamp really an artist?"
"Bah! how do I know? He made pictures. Certainly, he made pictures."
Jean Marot laughed so heartily at this subtle distinction that he lost
the mental note of her disinclination to gossip about her late
neighbor,--a reluctance that is decidedly foreign to the French female
character.
"Now, Monsieur Jean,"--when he had made up his mind,--"if you will let
me manage the concierge," she went on, "it may save you fifty francs,
don't you know? Very likely the term has been paid,--he will make you
pay it again. I know Monsieur Benoit,--he'd rob you like saying a
prayer."
"It is a novelty to be looked after by a female agent, anyhow," mused
the young man, when she had disappeared on this mission. "If she picks
up the fifty francs instead of that surly rascal Benoit I'm satisfied.
It is a quiet place, sure, and dog cheap. Now, I wonder what her game
is, for women don't do all of these things for nothing."
Jean was of the great pessimistic school of Frenchmen who never give a
woman credit for disinterestedness or honesty, but who regard them
good-naturedly as inferior beings, amusing, weak, selfish creatures,
placed on earth to gratify masculine vanity and passion,--to be
admired or pitied, as the case might be, but never trusted, and always
fair game. The married Frenchman never trusts his wife or daughter
alone with his best male friend. No young girl alone in the streets of
Paris is free from insult, day or night; and such a girl in such a
case would appeal to the honor of Frenchmen in vain.
Jean Marot would have never dreamed that Mlle. Fouchette had saved him
from imprisonment. Even in his magnanimous moments he would have
listened to the accusation that this girl had robbed him of his money
and watch quite as readily as to the statement that she had already
taken measures to insure the recovery of that personal property. Yet,
while his estimate of woman was low, it did not prevent him from
loving one whom he had believed another man's mistress; it did not
now steel his heart against the sympathy of mutual isolation.
"All goes well!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, skipping into the room.
"All goes well, eh?" he repeated.
"Yes, Monsieur Jean. Think then! it is a bargain. Oh, yes, one hundred
francs----"
"What?"
"I say one hundred francs saved! The semestre was paid and you get it
less a term's rent, thus you save one hundred francs. Isn't that nice?
One can live two months on one hundred francs."
"Oh! oh! oh! not I," he laughingly exclaimed. "But I guess I'd better
let you manage, little one; you have begun so well."
Her face almost flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled.
"And you shall have fifty of that hundred francs saved. It is only
fair, petite," he hastily added, seeing the brightness extinguished by
clouds.
But she turned abruptly towards the window. He mistook this gesture
and said to himself, "She would like to have it all, I suppose. I'd
better make a square bargain with her right here." Then aloud,--
"Mademoiselle Fouchette!"
"Yes, monsieur,"--coldly.
"What is your idea?"
"As to what, Monsieur Jean?"
"Well, say about our domestic affairs, if you will."
"Well, monsieur, very simply this: I will care for the place if you
wish,--somebody must care for it----"
"Yes, that is evident, and I wish you to help me, if you will."
"Then I'll serve the breakfasts and any other meal you wish to pay
for. In other words, if you prefer it in terms, I will be your
housekeeper. I can cook, and I'm a good buyer and----"
"No doubt of that, mon enfant; but I am a poor man now, you know, and
the pay----"
"Pay! And who has asked you to pay anything? Do you suppose--ah!
Monsieur Jean, you don't think me that!"
"But one can't be expected to work for nothing," protested the young
man, humbly.
"Work? It would be pleasure. And then you would be paying for what we
ate, wouldn't you? I have to make my coffee,--it would be just as easy
for two. And you would be perfectly free to dine at the restaurant
when you chose,--we'd be as free as we are now,--and I would not
intrude----"
"Oh, I never thought of that!" he declared.
"Do not spoil my pleasure by suggesting money!" Her voice was growing
low and the lips trembled a little, but only for a second or two, when
she recovered her ordinary tone.
"As a rich man's son living in the Faubourg St. Honoré you might have
suspected that motive, but as a medical student chassé, and deserted
by his parents and with no prospects to speak of----"
His lugubrious smile checked her.
"Pardon! Monsieur Jean, I did not wish to remind you of your
misfortunes. Let us put it on purely selfish grounds. I am poor. I am
alone. I am lonely. I should at least earn my coffee and rolls. I
would see you every day. My time would be pleasantly occupied. I will
be a sister,--bonne camarade,--nothing more, nothing less----"
He had taken her hands impulsively, but her eyes were veiled by the
heavy lashes.
"Voilà! It is then understood?" she asked, venturing to look up into
his face.
"Certes! But your terms are too generous,--and--and, you know the
object of my heart, mademoiselle."
"Toujours! And I will help you attain that object if possible," she
said, warmly, pressing his hand.
"You are too good, mademoiselle," he responded. "Next to one woman I
think you are the best woman I ever knew!"
He took her in his strong arms and kissed her tenderly, though she
struggled faintly.
"Enough! enough! You must not do that, monsieur! I do not like it.
Remember how I hate men, spoony men,--they disgust me! As a woman I
can be nothing to you; as a friend I may be much. Save your caresses,
monsieur, for the woman you love! You understand?"
"There! no offence, little one. Am I not your brother?" he asked,
laughing.
She nervously readjusted her blonde hair before the little glass and
did not reply. But it was evident that she was not very angry, for
Mlle. Fouchette was explosive and went off at a rude touch.
At the same moment a terrible racket rose from the stairway,--the
sound of a woman's voice and blows and the howling of a dog. Leaning
over the banister the young couple saw a woman, short, broad,
bareheaded, and angry, wielding a broom-handle. The passage was rather
narrow, so that more than half of the whacks at the dog were spent
upon the wall and balustrade, though the animal, lashed to the latter,
yelped at every blow the same.
Now, in Paris a dog is a sort of a privileged animal, not quite
sacred. Rome was saved by geese, pigeons are venerated in Venice. Dogs
preserved Paris in the fearful day of the great siege by suffering
themselves to be turned into soups, steaks, sausage, etc. Since which
Paris has become the dog paradise, where all good dogs go when they
die. They not only have the right of way everywhere, but the exclusive
right of the sunny sidewalks in winter and shady side in summer. A
Frenchman will beat his wife, or stab his mistress in the back, club
his horses fiendishly, but he will never raise hand or foot against a
dog.
From every landing came a burst of remonstrance and indignation.
Vituperative language peculiar to a neighborhood that has enjoyed the
intimate society of two thousand years of accumulated human wisdom and
intellectual greatness, and embellished and decorated by the old
masters, rose and fell upon the sinful dog-beater, with the effect of
increasing the blows.
Suddenly three persons sprang to the rescue, two from below and one
from above. The last was a woman and the owner of the dog.
"Mon Dieu! My dear little Tu-tu!" she screamed.
And with a howl of wrath that drowned the piercing voice of poor
little Tu-tu she precipitated herself upon the enemy.
The latter turned her weapon upon the new-comer just as the two men
from below grabbed her. This diversion enabled the infuriated
dog-owner to plant both hands in the enemy's hair, which came off at
the first wrench.
"Oh!" cried Jean.
"It is horrible!" said Mlle. Fouchette, with a shudder.
From where they beheld the tragedy they could not see that the hair
was false.
But the dog-beater was just as angry as if it had been ripped from its
original and virgin pasture, and she uttered a shriek that was heard
around the block and grappled her three assailants.
The whole four, a struggling composite mass of legs and arms, went
rolling down to the next landing surrounded by a special and lurid
atmosphere of oaths.
There they were arrested by the aroused police agents.
Poor little Tu-tu had stopped howling. He was dead,--crushed under the
human avalanche.
"Yes," said Jean, "this is a quiet house."
"Dame!" replied Mlle. Fouchette, "it is like death!"