An hour later Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette were at the foot of the
broad stone steps leading to the Hôtel Dieu, the famous hospital
fronting on the plaza of Notre Dame.
"I will wait," he said.
"Yes; I will inquire," she assented. "I was here last night." And
Mlle. Fouchette ran lightly up the steps and entered the palatial
court.
Another woman was hastily walking in the opposite direction. She bent
her head and quickened her steps as if to avoid recognition.
"Why, it is Madeleine!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself in the
way.
A face stamped with the marks of dissipation and haggard with watching
was raised to meet this greeting. The one big, round, dark orb gleamed
upon the speaker almost fiercely.
"So you're here again," muttered the one-eyed grisette, in her deep
voice.
"It seems so. I wish to find out how he is."
"What business is it of yours?"
"Oh, come, now, Madeleine; you're all upset. You look worn out. You
have been here all night?"
"Ah, çà! it is nothing. Have I not been up all night more than once?"
"And monsieur----"
"They say he is better."
"You have seen him, then?"
"No; they would not allow me. Besides, there is his sister."
"Is she with him now?"
"Not now. They sent her away in the night. She will be back this
morning."
"Poor girl!"
"But what is all this to you? Why are you here? Does the Ministry----"
"Madeleine!"
But the tigerish look that swept over Mlle. Fouchette's face gave way
to confusion when the grisette quickly shifted her ground.
"Monsieur Marot, I suppose."
"Yes, Madeleine."
"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked,
with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.
"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a
little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry,
Madeleine."
"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"
"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set
these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once
more."
The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a
voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle.
Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the
search was vain.
"Ah! very well, petite," the searcher finally said, with a sigh.
"Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each
other like wild beasts."
Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck
were as plain as print.
They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be
love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?
"Mademoiselle!"
The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.
"You know that a reconciliation between these men means----"
"That Jean Marot will be thrown into the arms of the woman he loves,"
was the bold interpolation.
"Exactly."
"That is what I wish."
The dark eye gleamed again, and the breast heaved. It must be Lerouge!
Jealousy places the desirability of its subject above everything. It
must be Lerouge.
"Chut! Here she comes," whispered Mlle. Fouchette.
It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt of
which cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hair
puffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blue
eyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into a
questioning smile as she extended her small hand.
"Oh, Monsieur Lerouge is much better, mademoiselle," said Madeleine.
"Thank you!--thank you for your good news, my dear," Mlle. Remy warmly
replied.
She turned towards Mlle. Fouchette a little nervously, and Madeleine
introduced them.
"It is strange, Mademoiselle Fouchette," observed Mlle. Remy; "could I
have met you before?"
"I think not, mademoiselle. One meets people on the boulevards----"
"No, I don't mean that,--a long time ago, somewhere,--not in Paris."
Mlle. Remy was trying to think.
"Perhaps you confuse me with somebody else, mademoiselle."
"Scarcely, since I do not remember seeing anybody who resembled you.
No, it is not that, surely."
"One often fancies----"
"But my brother Henri thought so too, which is very curious. May I ask
you if your name----"
"Just Fouchette, mademoiselle. I never heard of any other----"
"I am from Nantes," interrupted Mlle. Remy. "Think!"
"And I am only a child of the streets of Paris, mademoiselle," said
Mlle. Fouchette, humbly.
"Ah!"
Mlle. Remy sighed.
"Mademoiselle Fouchette and Monsieur Marot have come to learn the news
of your brother," said Madeleine, seeing the latter approaching.
Jean Marot had, in fact, followed Mlle. Remy inside of the building,
but having been overtaken by timidity for the first time in his life,
had hesitated at a little distance in the rear. He could stand the
suspense no longer.
"Monsieur Marot, Mademoiselle----"
"Oh, we have met before, monsieur, have we not?" asked Mlle. Remy,
lightly. "I thank you very much for----"
Jean felt his heart beating against the ribbed walls of its prison as
if it would burst forth to attest its love for her. He had often
conjured up this meeting and rehearsed what he would say to her. Now
his lips were dumb. He could only look and listen.
And this was she whom he loved!
In the mean time Mlle. Remy, who had flushed a little under the
intense scrutiny she felt but could not understand, grew visibly
uneasy. She detected a sign from Mlle. Fouchette.
He had unconsciously disclosed the telltale marks upon his neck.
At the sight Mlle. Remy grew pale. There was much about this young man
that recalled her brother Henri, even these terrible finger-marks. All
at once she remembered the meeting of Mardi Gras, when her brother
insulted him and pulled her away.
Why?
It was because this young Marot admired her, and because he and her
brother were enemies. She saw it now for the first time. Paris was
full of political enemies. Yet, in awe of her brother's judgment and
like a well-bred French girl, she dared not raise her eyes to
his,--with the half-minute of formalities she hurried away. But as she
turned she gave him one quick glance that combined politeness,
shyness, fear, curiosity, and pity,--a glance that went straight to
his heart and increased its tumult.
A pair of sharp, steel-blue eyes regarded him furtively, and, while
half veiled by the long lashes, lost not a breath or gesture of this
meeting and parting,--saw Jean standing, hat in hand, partly bowed,
speechless, with his soul in his handsome face.
The one black eye of the maimed grisette saw only Mlle. Fouchette. If
that scrutiny could not fathom Mlle. Fouchette's mind, it was perhaps
because the mind of Mlle. Fouchette was not sufficiently clear.
"Allons!" said the latter young woman, in a tone that scarcely broke
his revery.
There is often more expression in a simple touch than in a multitude
of words. The unhappy grisette felt this from the sympathetic hand of
the young man slipped into hers at parting. At a little distance she
turned to see Jean and Mlle. Fouchette enter a cab and drive towards
the right bank.
"Çà!" she murmured, "but if that petite moucharde had a heart it would
be his!"
During the next half-hour Mlle. Fouchette unconsciously gained greatly
in Jean's estimation by saying nothing. They went to the Crédit
Lyonnais, in Boulevard des Italiens, to Rue St. Honoré, to the "agent
de location,"--getting money, taking a list of furniture, seeing about
the sale of his lease. In all of this business Mlle. Fouchette showed
such a clear head and quick calculation that from first being amused,
Jean at last leaned upon her implicitly.
The next day was spent in arranging his new quarters, Mlle. Fouchette
issuing general direction, to the constant discomfiture of the worthy
Benoit, thus deprived of unknown perquisites.
When this work of installation had been completed, Jean found himself
with comfortable quarters in the Rue St. Jacques at a saving of
nearly two thousand four hundred francs.
"There!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette.
"At last!" said Jean.
"Now," Mlle. Fouchette began, with enthusiasm, "I'm going to get
dinner!"
"Oh, not to-day! Allons donc! We must celebrate by dinner at the
restaurant."
"But it's a sinful waste of money, when one has such a sweet
range,--and you must economize, monsieur."
"All right," he replied,--"to-morrow."
It is a popular plan of economy, that which begins to-morrow.
"Yes, to-morrow; to-morrow you shall have your way. To-day I have
mine. Why, what a parsimonious little wretch you are! And have you not
been devoting all of your time and working hard for me these five
days?"
"Ah! Monsieur Jean----"
"We will treat ourselves to a good dinner au boulevard. You have been
my best friend----"
"Oh, Monsieur Jean!"
"Are my best friend," he added. "I really don't see how I could have
gotten on without you."
"Ah! Monsieur Jean!"
"You have saved me hundreds of francs,--you are such a good little
manager!"
Nothing up to that moment had ever given Mlle. Fouchette half the
pleasure bestowed with this praise. Mlle. Fouchette blushed. Jean saw
this blush and laughed. It was so funny to see Mlle. Fouchette blush.
This made Mlle. Fouchette blush still deeper. In fact, it seemed as if
all the warm blood that had been concealed in Mlle. Fouchette's system
so long had taken an upward tendency and now disported itself about
her neck and face.
Jean would have kissed her, only she repulsed him angrily; then,
seeing his surprise and confusion, she covered her face with her hands
and laughed hysterically.
"Mademoiselle----"
"Stop, stop, stop! I knew what you were going to say! It was money
again!"
"Really, mademoiselle----"
"It was! You did! You know you did! And you know how I hate it! Don't
you dare to offer me money, because I love----" Mlle. Fouchette choked
here a little,--"because I love to help you, Monsieur Jean!"
"But I was not thinking of offering you money for your kindness, mon
enfant." Jean took this play for safety as genuine wrath.
"You were going to; you know you were!" she retorted, defiantly.
"Well, I suppose I may offer to repay the louis I borrowed the other
day?"
"Oh, yes! I'll make you pay your debts, monsieur,--never fear that!"
She began to recover her equilibrium, and smiled confidently in his
face. But he was now serious.
"There are some debts one can never pay," said he.
"Never! never! never!" she exclaimed. "Monsieur, whatever I might do,
I owe you still! It will always be so!"
"Uh! Uh! That's barred, petite."
He stopped walking up and down and looked into her earnest eyes
without grasping her meaning. "She is more feminine than one would
suppose," he said to himself,--"almost interesting, really!"
"Come!" he cried, suddenly, "this is straying from the subject, which
is dinner. Come!"
"We'd have to do some marketing, anyhow," she admitted, as if arguing
with herself. "Perhaps it is better to go out."
"Most assuredly."
"Not at any fashionable place, Monsieur Jean----"
"Oh, no; is there any such place in the quarter?" he laughingly asked.
"Can't we go over on the other side?"
"Yes, my child, certainly."
"I know a place in Montmartre where one may dine en fête for two
francs and a half, café compris." She was getting on her things, and
for the first time was conscious of the hole in the heel of her
stocking.
"There is the Café de Paris----"
"Oh! it is five francs!" she exclaimed.
"Well, one may dine better on five francs than two and a half."
"It is too dear, Monsieur Jean."
"Then there is the Hôtel du Louvre table-d'hôte, four francs,--very
good, too."
"It is too fashionable,--too many Americans."
"Parbleu! one can be an American for one meal, can he not? They say
Americans live well in their own country. They have meat three times a
day,--even the poorest laborers."
"And eat meat for breakfast,--it is horrible!"
"Yes,--they are savages."
After discussing the various places and finding that his ideas of a
good dining-place were somewhat more enlarged than her ideas, Mlle.
Fouchette finally brought him down to a Bouillon in Boule'
Miche',--the student appellation for Boulevard St. Michel. She would
have preferred any other quarter of the city, though not earnestly
enough to stand out for it.
They settled on the Café Weber, opposite the ancient College
d'Harcourt, a place of the Bouillon order, with innumerable dishes
graded up from twenty centimes to a franc and an additional charge of
ten centimes for the use of a napkin.
Wine aside, a better meal for less money can be had in a score of
places on Broadway. In the matter of wine, the New York to the Paris
price would be as a dollar to the franc.
In the Quartier Latin these places are patronized almost exclusively
by the student class. Not less than fifty of the latter were at table
in the Café Weber when Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette entered. Here
and there among them were a few grisettes and as many cocottes of the
Café d'Harcourt, costumes en bicyclette, demure, hungry, and silent.
Young women in smart caps and white aprons briskly served the tables,
while in the centre, in a sort of enclosed pulpit, sat the handsome,
rosy-faced dame du comptoir, with a sharp eye for employés and a
winning smile and nod for familiar customers.
There was a perceptible sensation upon the entrance of the last
comers. A momentary hush was succeeded by a general buzz of
conversation, the subject of which was quite easily understood. The
stately dame du comptoir immediately opened her little wicket and came
down from her perch to show the couple to the best seats, a courtesy
rarely extended by that impersonation of restaurant dignity. The
hungry women almost stopped eating to see what man was in tow of the
"Savatière."
"We are decidedly an event," laughingly observed Jean as they became
seated where they could command the general crowd at table.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the dame du comptoir, though his remark had
not been addressed to that lady,--"the fame of the brave Monsieur
Marot is well known in the quarter. And--and mademoiselle," she added,
sweetly, "mademoiselle--well, everybody knows mademoiselle."
With this under-cut at Mlle. Fouchette the rosy-cheeked cashier left
them in charge of the waitress of that particular table.
"You see, Monsieur Jean," said his companion, not at all pleased by
this reception, "we are both pretty well known here."
"So it seems. Yet I was never in here before, if I remember
correctly."
"Nor I," said she, "but once or twice."
Notoriety is fame to Frenchmen, and while he did not yet fully
comprehend it, Jean Marot had reached this sort of fame in a single
day. His name had been actively and even viciously discussed in the
newspapers. He was accused of being both royalist and anti-Dreyfusarde
by the ultra republican press. He was said to be a Bonapartist. The
Dreyfusarde papers declared that the government had connived at his
discharge from prison. The nationalist papers lauded him as a patriot.
One extravagant writer compared him to the celebrated Camille
Desmoulins who led the great Revolution. A noisy deputation had called
upon him in the Rue St. Honoré to find that he had not been seen there
since the riot.
Of all of this Jean Marot actually knew less than any other
well-informed person in Paris. Being wholly absorbed in his domestic
affairs, he had scarcely more than glanced at a newspaper, and did not
at this moment know that his name had ever been printed in the Paris
journals. The few acquaintances he had met had congratulated him for
something, and some students he did not know had raised their hats to
him in the streets; and once he had been saluted by a class procession
with desultory cries of "Vive Marot!" Mere rioting was then too common
in Paris to excite particular attention individually.
But Jean Marot had been magnified by newspaper controversy into a
formidable political leader; besides which there were young men here
who had followed him a few days before in the riots. Therefore he was
now the cynosure of curious attention.
From admiring glances the crowd of diners quickly passed to
complimentary language intended for his ears.
"He's a brave young man!" "You should have seen him that day!" "Ah,
but he's a fighter, is M. Marot!" "Un bon camarade!" "He is a
patriot!" etc.
These broken expressions were mingled with sly allusions to Mlle.
Fouchette from the women, who were consumed by envy. They had heard of
the Savatière's conquest with disbelief, now they saw it with their
own eyes. The brazen thing! She was showing him off.
"She's caught on at last."
"Monsieur has more money than taste."
"Is he as rich as they say?"
"The skinny model."
"Model, bah!"
"Model for hair-pin, probably."
"The airs of that kicker!"
"He might have got a prettier mistress without trying hard."
"He'll find her a devil."
"Oh, there's no doubt about it. He has fitted up an elegant
appartement for her in the Rue St. Jacques."
"Rue St. Jacques. Faugh!"
It should be unnecessary to say that these encomiums were not designed
for the ears of Mlle. Fouchette, though the said ears must have burned
with self-consciousness. But it may be well enough to remark that
despite the spleen the object of it had risen immensely in the
estimation of the female as well as the male habitués of Café Weber.
As the couple occupied a table in the extreme rear, the patrons in
front found it convenient to go out by way of the Rue Champollion in
order to see if not to bow to the distinguished guest.
The apparent fact that the new political leader had taken up with one
of the most notorious women of the Quartier Latin in no way detracted
from their esteem for him,--rather lent an agreeable piquancy to his
character. On the other hand, it raised Mlle. Fouchette to a certain
degree of respectability.
These demonstrations annoyed our young gentleman very much. Nothing
but this patent fact saved them from a general reception.
"It is provoking!" exclaimed his companion.
"I don't understand it at all," said he.
"I do," replied Mlle. Fouchette.
"And, see, little one, I don't like it."
"I knew you wouldn't, and that is why I suggested the right bank of
the river."
"True,--I always make a mistake when I don't follow your advice. Have
some more wine,--I call that good."
"It ought to be at two francs a bottle," she retorted.
"My father would call this rank poison, but it goes."
"Poor me! I never tasted any better," laughed the girl, sipping the
wine with the air of a connaisseuse. "A litre à cinquante is my
tipple," she said.
"Now, what the devil do all these people mean?" he asked, when a party
had passed them with a slight demonstration.
"That you are famous, monsieur. I wish we had remained at home."
"So do I, petite," he said.
"Let us take our coffee there, at least," she suggested.
"Good!" he cried,--"by all means!"
They were soon installed in his small salon, where she quickly spread
a table of dainty china. She had agreed with him in keeping his
pictures, bric-à-brac, and prettiest dishes.
"Ah! they are so sweet!" she would say. "Now here is a lovely blue cup
for you. I take the dear little pink one,--it's as delicate as an
egg-shell,--Sèvres, surely! And here's some of my coffee. It is not as
good, perhaps, as you are used to, but----"
"Oh, I'm used to anything,--except being stared at and mobbed by a lot
of curious chaps as if I were a calf with six legs, or had run off
with the President's daughter, or----"
"Or committed murder, eh?" said she. "People always stare at
murderers, do they not? Still, it isn't really bad, you know,"
abruptly returning to the coffee, "with a petit verre and cigarette."
"Au contraire," he retorted, gayly.
And over their coffee and cognac and cigarettes, surrounded by his
tasteful belongings, shut in by the heavy damask hangings, under the
graceful wreaths of smoke, they formed a very pretty picture. He,
robust, dark, manly; she, frail, delicate, blonde, and distinctively
feminine.
The comfort of it all smote them alike. The conversation soon became
forced, then ceased, leaving each silently immersed in thought.
But Mlle. Fouchette welcomed this interval of silence with a
satisfaction inexpressible. She, too, was under the spell of the place
and the occasion. Mlle. Fouchette was not a sentimental woman, as we
have seen; but she had recently been undergoing a mental struggle that
taxed all her practical common sense. She found now that she saw
things more clearly.
The result frightened her.
Mlle. Fouchette felt that she was happy, therefore she was frightened.
She experienced a mysterious glow of gladness--the gladness of mere
living--in her veins. It permeated her being and filled her heart with
warm desires.
This feeling had been stealing upon her so gradually and insidiously
that she had never realized it until this moment,--the moment when it
had taken full possession of her soul.
"I love him! I love him!" she repeated to herself. "I have struggled
against it,--I have denied it. I did not want to do it,--it is misery!
But I can't help it,--I love him! I, Fouchette, the spy, who would
have betrayed him, who wronged him, who thought love impossible!"
She did not try to deceive herself. She knew that at this moment, when
her heart was so full of him, he was thinking of another woman,--a
beautiful and pure being that was worthy of his love,--that he had
forgotten her very existence. She had not the remotest idea of trying
to attract that love to herself. She did not even indulge in the
pardonable girlish dreams in which "If" is the principal character.
He was as impossible to her as the pyramids of Egypt. Therefore she
was frightened.
"Mon Dieu! but I surely do love him!" She communed with her poor
little bursting heart. "And it is beautiful to love!" She sighed
deeply.
"Mademoiselle!"
She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heard
her sigh, and felt the hot blood mantle her neck again,--for the
second time within her memory.
"Pardon! mademoiselle," he said, gently, "I forgot. I was
thinking----"
"Of her? Yes,--I know. It is--how you startled me!"
There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he moved
his chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in the
usual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a low
divan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees and
rested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to have
him touch her.
"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone.
"Bah! it is nothing," she murmured; "and nothing magnified is still
nothing."
There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged with
tenderness. He came over and stood beside her.
"I was thinking----"
"Of her,--yes,--I understand----"
"And I lose myself in my love," he added.
"Yes; love! Oui da!"
She laughed a little hysterically and shrugged the thin shoulders
without changing her position.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, pityingly, "you do not know what love is!"
"Me? No! Why should I?"
She never once looked up at him. She dared not.
"And yet you once said love was everything," he continued, thinking
only of himself.
"Yes,--everything," she repeated, mechanically. "Did I say that?"
"And you spoke truly, though I did not know it then----"
"No,--I did not know it then," she repeated, absently.
In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him
trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.
"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted
him among the stars.
Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered
cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering
heap.