Mlle. Fouchette had her reasons for not wishing to meet Inspector Loup
anywhere or at any time. These reasons were especially sound,
considering this particular time and place.
And that the knock on Jean's door was that of Inspector Loup she had
no more doubt than if she had been confronted by that official in
person.
Therefore her flight.
The visit of Inspector Loup had the same effect upon Mlle. Fouchette
that the unexpected appearance of the general of an army might have
upon a sleepy picket-guard or a man off post. Inspector Loup was to
her a sort of human monster--a moral devil-fish--that not even the
cleverest could escape if he chose to reach out for them.
Mlle. Fouchette had been seized by the tentacles of Inspector Loup in
her infancy, as has been seen, and from that moment had become the
creature of his imperial will,--had, in fact, finally become one of
the myriad infinitesimal tentacles herself, subservient to the
master-mind. Whatever scruples she had imbibed from the society of the
Rendez-Vous pour Cochers had been dissipated by the Jesuit sisters of
Le Bon Pasteur. In the select circle of the vagabonds of the Porte de
Charenton and robbers of the wood of Vincennes the police agent was
execrated, and the secret informer, or spy, was deemed the most
despicable of human creatures and worthy only of a violent death;
whereas the good Mother Supérieure of Le Bon Pasteur encouraged the
tale-bearer and rewarded the informer with her favor and the
assurance of the Divine blessing. Even the good Sister Agnes--now
already a kind of shadowy memory--had taught the waif that spying out
and reporting to the constituted authorities was commendable and
honorable.
And to do Mlle. Fouchette full justice she so profited by these
religious teachings that she was enabled to impart valuable inside
information to Inspector Loup's branch of the government concerning
the royalist plottings at Le Bon Pasteur. The importance of these
revelations Mlle. Fouchette herself did not understand, but that it
was of great value to the ministry--as possibly corroborating other
facts of a similar nature in their possession--was evidenced by the
transfer of Mlle. Fouchette's name to a special list of secret agents
at the Ministry, with liberty to make special reports over the head of
Monsieur l'Inspecteur himself.
From that moment the latter official watched Mlle. Fouchette with a
vigilant eye; for under the spy system agents were employed to watch
and report the actions of other agents. This held good from the top of
the Secret Service down,--reminding one of the vermin of Hudibras
that--
"had fleas to bite 'em,
And these same fleas had lesser fleas,
So on ad infinitum."
In Mlle. Fouchette the government had found one of the lesser fleas,
but none the less sharp, shrewd, active, and unconscionable.
Up to a quite recent period.
Mlle. Fouchette's reports to the Préfecture had latterly betrayed a
laxity of interest that invited official attention, if they did not
call down upon her the official censure.
The girl was conscious of this. Half sullen, half defiant, she was
struggling under the weight of the new views of life recently
acquired. Like the rest of the intelligent world, whose wisdom chiefly
consists in unlearning what it has already learned, Mlle. Fouchette
was somewhat confused at the rapidity with which old ideas went to
pieces and new ideas crowded upon her mind.
Because--well, because of Jean Marot.
A single look from Inspector Loup before Jean would terrify her,--a
word would crush her.
She must have time.
And why did Inspector Loup come there in person as errand-boy unless
for another purpose? She thought of the secret agents who usually
accompanied Inspector Loup. She knew that at this moment they were
spread out below like the videttes of an army. They were down in the
Rue St. Jacques in their usual function of Inspector Loup's eyes that
saw everything and Inspector Loup's ears that heard everything.
This visit to Jean was a mere pretext that covered something more
important. Was it concerning Jean? Or, was it her? Perhaps Monsieur
l'Inspecteur wanted her,--a species of flattery which would have been
incense to her a month ago, and was now a terror.
It was only a few days since she had earned fifty francs and the
compliments of Inspector Loup. It was true, Monsieur de Beauchamp had
got away to Brussels, the centre of the Orléans conspiracy.
He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicated
the change of policy as to the well-known and openly tolerated
machinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orléanists in
Paris and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and
also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.
Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine
philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case--he was such a
handsome and such an agreeable gentleman--and had given him the
straight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this good
action, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought of
Inspector Loup. She was only a poor petite moucharde,--a word from
him--nay, a nod, a significant wink--would deprive her of the sunshine
that ripens the grapes of France.
When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took the
key of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lock
was familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling the
door shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again when
she chose to come out.
She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound of
Monsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her,--she knew it.
She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watch
and chain episode reassured her but little,--beyond the assurance that
Jean was in no immediate danger.
She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking to
have some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. The
wall was very thick and there was ample space behind her, but this
space seemed to give way and let her back farther and farther,
unexpectedly, as one leans against an opening door.
It was a door. And it let her into the wall, apparently, and so
suddenly that she lost her balance.
As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectly
still for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she had
made no noise.
"Dear me! but this is very curious," she murmured, feeling the walls
on all sides.
She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left,--she
could feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key.
All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all about
Jean,--even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselessly
and opened the door,--a little at first, then more boldly.
She heard nothing. She saw nothing. Whatever the place it was as black
as pitch.
She now recalled the mysterious goings and comings of the friends of
Monsieur de Beauchamp,--the disappearance of half a dozen at a
time,--the peculiar noises heard from her side of the closet.
"Truly, this is the back shop of Monsieur de Beauchamp," said she, as
she stumbled upon a box. "If I only had a candle or a match."
She felt the box, which was almost square, and was so heavy she could
scarcely raise one end of it.
She groped along the wall, where similar boxes were piled up, and
began to wonder what on earth Monsieur de Beauchamp had stored there
in his back shop.
A startling suggestion stole into her mind,--perhaps it was----
She hastily sought the door by which she had entered, and in her
excitement she stumbled against it.
The door closed with a snap.
Mlle. Fouchette was not afraid of being alone in the dark, yet she
trembled nervously from head to foot.
She knew that the key was on the inside!
Then she remembered that other door only a few feet away with its key
on the inside and with Jean Marot on the outside. And she trembled
more than ever.
What would Jean think of her?
Of course, she knew he would be likely to force the closet door; but
when he had found her missing,--what then? Would he be angry? Would he
not suspect some trick? Would he persevere till he found her?
It was all about Jean,--of herself she scarcely thought, only so far
as the effect might come through him. All at once she felt rather than
heard the dull sound of the breaking door beyond.
"Ah! he has broken the door. He will come! He has discovered it!"
She beat the walls with her small fists,--kicked the unresponsive
stone with her thin little shoes,--her blows gave out no sound. If she
only had something to knock with----
She fumbled blindly in the darkness among the boxes. Perhaps--yes,
here was one open, and--
"Voilà!"
She laid her hand on a heavy, cylindrical substance like a piece of
iron gas-pipe, only--funny, but it was packed in something like
sawdust.
She tapped smartly on the wall with it--once, twice, thrice--at
regular intervals, then listened.
The two similar raps from the other side showed that she was both
heard and understood.
"He has found it. Ah! here he is!"
And with her last exclamation Jean appeared, candle in hand, peering
into the room and at Mlle. Fouchette in the dazed way more
characteristic of the somnambulist than of one awake and in the full
possession of his senses.
"Mon Dieu! mon enfant, what have we here?" he ejaculated as soon as he
recovered breath. "What is it? Are you all right? How foolish you are,
little one!"
"All right, mon ami."
And she briefly and rapidly recited her adventures, at the end
triumphantly exhibiting the bit of iron pipe with which she had opened
communication.
His face suddenly froze with horror!
"Give it to me!"
He snatched it from her hand excitedly and held it an instant apart
from his candle.
"A thousand thunders!" he gasped, at the same time handling the thing
gingerly and looking for a place to lay it down.
"But----"
"It is a dynamite bomb!" he said, hoarsely.
"Mon Dieu!"
She turned as white as a sheet and staggered backward only to come in
contact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this as
if she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quite
feminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions.
"Where did you get this, petite?" he asked. "It is death,--a horrible
death!"
She pointed to the boxes, unable to speak.
"Dynamite bombs! cartridges! powder and ball!" he declared, as he
casually examined the nearest. "It is a real arsenal!"
"Come, Jean! Let us go!" said the girl, seizing him. "It is dangerous!
Your candle! think! Come!"
She dragged him towards the open door. "Ah! to think I beat upon the
wall with that--that----"
She shivered like a leaf.
"You are right," said he. "The candle is dangerous. I will get my
bicycle-lamp and we will investigate this mystery."
"It is no longer a mystery," she replied,--"not to me. It is the hand
of the Duke."
"It is very singular," he muttered. "Very curious."
"It is a fairy romance," said she, as they passed back through the
narrow opening to Jean's appartement.
"There is no fairy story about that dynamite,--that, at least, is both
practical and modern."
"Oh! I mean this secret passage and all that----"
"Yes; but don't you know, mon enfant, that I first thought it led
to--to your----"
"For shame! Monsieur Jean!"
"I don't know," said he, shaking his head smilingly. "Monsieur de
Beauchamp was a very handsome man."
"Yes, besides being an ardent servant of the Duc d'Orléans and an
artist collector of pictures and bric-à-brac----"
"Especially 'bric-à-brac,'" said Jean, with sarcasm.
"Anyhow, mon ami, you now know----"
"That I was unjust to you, yes; pardon me! You could know very little
of Beauchamp, since he was able to collect all of this bric-à-brac
under your nose."
Mlle. Fouchette reddened, thinking, nervously, of what Inspector Loup
would say on that head. Jean saw this color and changed the
conversation.
"Come, now, let us go and explore Monsieur de Beauchamp's articles of
vertu."
With the bicycle bull's-eye light in hand he led the way back through
the secret passage, followed closely by the young girl.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp wasn't the mighty Cæsar in one thing," said
Jean, as he squeezed through the narrow opening in the wall.
"How is that?"
"He had only lean men about him,--true conspirators."
"Yes,--it was necessary."
They found the dark room where all of the munitions of war and
compound assassination were stored. Entering, they inadvertently
closed the door behind them.
"Dame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette. "The key, monsieur! the key!"
"Que diable!"
"How provoking!"
"But we have the dynamite----"
"Ah, çà!"
But somehow Mlle. Fouchette was not as badly frightened at the
situation as one might have the right to expect. She even laughed
gayly at their mutual imprisonment.
"Dynamite!" muttered Jean,--"a throne founded upon dynamite would
crumble quickly----"
"Yes, and by dynamite," said she.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp was----"
"Is a royalist leader----"
"An assassin!"
"A tool of the Duc d'Orléans."
"The Duke would never stoop to wholesale murder! Never!"
"It is the way of kings, n'est-ce pas? to shelter themselves from
responsibility behind their tools?"
"Stop! there must be guns for this ammunition. It must be----"
Before the idea had fairly germinated in his brain Jean discovered a
door that in the candle-light had easily escaped their observation. It
was at the opposite side of the room from which they had entered. It
was a narrow door and the key was in the lock.
"Another way out," suggested the girl.
"Surely, petite, since that closet entrance was never meant for a
porte-cochère."
The door opened upon a narrow and dark passage paved with worn tiles.
At the end of this passage another door barred the way. An examination
showed at once that this last had not been used for a long time. To
the left, however, a mere slit in the stone was seen to involve a
steep stair of very much worn steps. Opposite the entrance to this
stairway was a shallow niche in the wall, in which were the remains of
burned candles.
"Cat stairs," said Mlle. Fouchette.
"And the cats have used it a good deal of late, I should judge," he
observed, carefully examining the entrance in the glare of the lamp.
"Leads to the roof, probably," she muttered.
"Probably. Let us mount."
"Oh, yes, let us follow the trail."
The instinct of the woman and the spy was now strong within her.
The "cat stairs" were closed at the top by a heavy oaken trap securely
fastened within by two iron hooks.
"It is astonishing!" he said.
"What?"
"These fastenings, keys, bolts, bars, are all on this side."
"Which shows merely that they are to be used only from this direction,
does it not?"
"Yes, that is plain; but we are now in another building, evidently,--a
building that must open on some other street than the Rue St.
Jacques."
In the mean time Jean had finally unfastened and forced the trap. In
another moment he had drawn her through the opening and they stood
under a cloudless sky.
"Ah!" she murmured.
"We are free, at least, mon enfant."
She was not thinking of that. The silence, the glorious vault of
stars, the----
"S-sh!"
"It's the bell of Sainte Geneviève," he whispered, crossing himself
involuntarily.
"Cover the light, Monsieur Jean. These roofs have scores of eyes----"
"And a couple of prowlers might be the target for a score of bullets,
eh? True enough!"
"Midnight!"
She had been counting the strokes of the clock, the sound of which
came, muffled and sullen, from the old square belfry beyond the
Panthéon.
The roofs of this old quarter presented a curious conglomeration of
the architectural monstrosities of seven centuries. It was a fantastic
tumult of irregular shapes that only took the semblance of human
design upon being considered in detail. As a whole they seemed the
result of a great upheaval of nature--the work of some powerful
demon--rather than that of human architectural conception. These
confused and frightful shapes stretched from street to street,--stiff
steeps of tile and moss-covered slate, massive chimneys and blackened
chimney-pots, great dormer-windows and rows of mere slits and holes of
glass betraying the existence of humanity within, walls and copings of
rusty stone running this way and that and stopping abruptly,
mysterious squares of even blackness representing courts and
breathing-spaces,--up hill and down dale, under the canopy of stars,
as far as the eye could reach!
And here, close at hand, and towering aloft in the entrancing
grandeur of celestial beauty, rose the dome of the Panthéon,--so
close, indeed, and so grandly great and beautiful in contrast with all
the rest, that it seemed the stupendous creation of the angels.
"You are cold, petite?" he whispered.
She had shivered and drawn a little closer to him.
"No," replied the girl, glancing around her, "but it is frightful."
"What?"
"Oh, these sombre roofs."
"Bah! petite," he responded lightly, "ghosts don't promenade the roofs
of Paris."
"They'd break their ghostly necks if they did."
"Come! and let us be careful not to break ours. Allons!"
They stole softly along the adjoining wall that ended at a court.
There was clearly no thoroughfare in this direction. Coming back on
the trail he examined the stone attentively, she meanwhile shading the
light with the folds of her dress. It was comparatively easy to note
the recent wear of feet in the time-accumulation of rust and dirt and
dry moss of these old stones. In a few moments he discovered that the
tracks turned off between two high-pitched roofs towards the Panthéon.
As from one of these slopes grinned a double row of dormer-windows, it
seemed incredible that any considerable number of prowlers might long
escape observation.
"But they may be vacant," said the girl, when Jean had suggested the
contingency.
"That is quite true."
So they stealthily crept rather than walked on, the end of the gutter
abutting on another court. The depression was marked here by virgin
moss.
"It is very extraordinary," growled Jean, entirely at a loss to
account for the abrupt close of the trail. There was no way out of
this trough save by climbing over one of these steep roofs, except----
"The window, perhaps," she whispered.
"True!"
Rapidly moving the lamp along the bottom of the gutter, Jean stopped.
"There it is!"
She pointed to the window above them with suppressed excitement.
There were almost imperceptible cleats cleverly laid across the
corrugated tiling; for the roof had a pitch of fifty degrees, and the
casement was half-way up the slope.
"It must be so," he said. "Wait!"
With the lantern concealed beneath his coat he scrambled noiselessly
up and examined the window. It was not fastened. Whoever had passed
here last had come this way. He opened it a little, then wider.
"Come! Quickly!"
Even as he called to her Jean threw open wide the windows,--which
folded from within, like all French windows--and entered, leaving
Mlle. Fouchette to follow at will. That damsel's catlike nature made a
roof a mere playground, and she was almost immediately behind him.
"Mon Dieu! What is this?"
They had descended four steps to the floor, and now the exclamation
burst from them simultaneously.
For a minute they stood, half breathless, looking about them.
They seemed to be in an empty room embracing the entire unfinished
garret of a house, gable to gable. The space was all roof and
floor,--that is, the roof rose abruptly from the floor on two sides to
the comb above.
As the eye became accustomed to the place, it first took in the small
square boxes, some of which had evidently been unpacked or prepared
for that process, the litter being scattered about the floor,--the
boxes similar to those stored in the dark room below. There were
roughly constructed platforms beneath all of the windows, with steps
leading up to the same. Beneath these platforms and along the whole of
one side of the room were wooden arm-racks glistening with arms of the
latest model. Belts, cartridge-boxes, bayonets, swords, an immense
assortment of military paraphernalia, lay piled on the floor at one
end of the room.
At the opposite end was mounted on a swivel a one-pound Maxim
rapid-firer, the wall in front of it being pierced to the last brick.
A few blows, and lo! the muzzle of the modern death-dealer!
Along the lower edge of the roof towards the Panthéon might have been
found numerous similar places, requiring only a thrust to become
loopholes for prostrate riflemen.
The most cursory glance from the windows above showed that these
commanded the Place du Panthéon and Rue Soufflot,--the scene of bloody
street battles of every revolutionary epoch.
Fifty active men from this vantage could have rendered either street
or barricade untenable, or as support to a barricade in the Place du
Panthéon have made such a barricade impregnable to exposed troops.
"It is admirable!" cried Jean, lost in contemplation of the strategic
importance of the position.
"It is wonderful, but----"
"Artillery? Yes," he interrupted, anticipating her reasoning; "but
artillery could not be elevated to command this place from the street,
and as for Mont Valérien----"
"The Panthéon----"
"Yes,--exactly,--they would never risk the Panthéon. Even the
Prussians spared that."
"Oh, Monsieur Jean, see!"
She had discovered a white silk flag embroidered with the lilies of
France.
"The wretches! They would restore the hated emblem of the Louis! This
is too much!" he exclaimed, in wrath.
"It is the way of the king, n'est-ce pas?"
She looked at him curiously.
"But the Duc d'Orléans should know that the people of France will
never abandon the tricolor,--never!"
"The people of France are fools!"
"True!" he rejoined, hotly, "and I am but one of them!"
"Ah, Monsieur Jean! Now you are uttering the words of wisdom. Recall
the language of Monsieur de Beauchamp,--that it is necessary to make
use of everybody and everything going the way of the king,--tending to
re-establish the throne!"
"The throne! I will have none of it. I'm a republican!"
She smiled. "And as a republican, what is your first duty now?"
"Why, to inform the proper authorities of our discovery."
"Good! Let us go!"
"Allons!" he responded, briskly.
"But how will we get out?"
"How about this door?"
He had brought the rays of the lamp to bear upon a door at the gable
opposite the Maxim gun. It was bolted and heavily barred, but these
fastenings were easily removed.
As anticipated, this door led to a passage and to stairs which, in
turn, led down to the street. They closed the door with as little
noise as possible, carefully locking it and bringing away the key.
A light below showed that the lower part of this house was inhabited,
probably by people innocent of the terrible drama organized above
their heads. But the slightest noise might arouse these people, and in
such a case the Frenchman is apt to shoot first and make inquiries
afterwards. However, once in the street, they could go around to their
own rooms without trouble. It was worth the risk.
The stairs, fortunately, had a strip of carpeting, so they soon found
themselves safely at the street door. To quietly open this was but the
work of a few seconds, when----
They stepped into the arms of Inspector Loup and his agents.