"Pardieu!" exclaimed Inspector Loup, who never recognized his agents
officially outside of the Préfecture; "it is La Savatière!"
Mlle. Fouchette trembled a little.
"And Monsieur Marot! Why, this is an unexpected pleasure," continued
the police official.
"Then the pleasure is all on one side," promptly responded Jean, who
was disgusted beyond measure.
Inspector Loup regarded the pair with his fishy eyes half closed. For
once in his life he was nonplussed. Nay, if anything could be said to
be surprising to Inspector Loup, this meeting was unexpected and
surprising. But he was too clever a player to needlessly expose the
weakness of his hand.
Mlle. Fouchette's eyes avoided scrutiny. She had given Jean one quick,
significant glance and then looked demurely around, as if the matter
merely bored her.
Jean understood that glance and was dumb.
Inspector Loup's waiting tactics did not work.
"So my birdies must coo at midnight on the house-tops," he finally
remarked.
"Well, monsieur," retorted the young man, "is there any law against
that?"
"Where's the lantern?"
"Here," said Jean, turning the bull's-eye on the face of the
inspector.
"Bicycle. Is your wheel above, monsieur?" This ironically.
"Not exactly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."
"Now, Monsieur Jean," put in Mlle. Fouchette, "if Monsieur
l'Inspecteur has no further questions to ask----"
"Not so fast, mademoiselle," sharply interrupted the officer. "Just
wait a bit; for, while I do not claim that roof-walking at midnight is
unpardonable in cats and lovers, it is especially forbidden to enter
other people's houses when they are asleep."
Mlle. Fouchette's nervousness did not escape the little fishy eyes.
While it was already evident that Monsieur l'Inspecteur was talking at
random, it was morally certain that he would smoke them out.
"And two persons armed with a dark-lantern, coming out of a house not
their own, at this time of night," continued the inspector, "are under
legitimate suspicion until they can explain."
Mlle. Fouchette made a sign to Jean that he was to hold his tongue.
"Now, none of that, mademoiselle!" cried the inspector, angrily.
He rudely separated the couple, and, taking charge of the girl
himself, turned Jean over to four of his agents who were near at hand.
"We'll put you where you'll have time to reflect," he said.
Mlle. Fouchette was inspired. She saw that it was not a souricière. If
the inspector knew what was above, he would not have left the
entrances and exits unguarded. To be absolutely sure of this, she
waited until they had passed the Rue St. Jacques.
"Now is my opportunity to play quits," she said to herself, and her
face betrayed the intensity of her purpose.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur!"
"Well?"
"I would like a private word with you, please."
"What's that? Oh, it's of no use," he replied.
"To your advantage, monsieur."
"And yours, eh?"
"Undoubtedly," she frankly said.
They walked on a few steps. Then the inspector raised his hand for
those in the rear to stop.
They soon stood in the dark entrance of a wine-shop, the inspector of
the secret police and his petite moucharde, both as sharp and hard as
flint.
"Now, out with it, you little vixen!" he commanded, assuming his
brutal side. "Let us have no trifling. You know me!"
"And you know _me_, monsieur!" she retorted, with the first show of
anger in her voice.
"Speak!"
"I said I had important information," she began, calmly. But it was
with an effort, for he had shaken her roughly.
"Yes!" he put in; "and see that you make good, mon enfant!"
He was suspicious that this was some clever ruse to escape her present
dilemma. Monsieur l'Inspecteur certainly knew Mlle. Fouchette.
"Information that you do not seem to want, monsieur----"
"Will you speak?"
"I have the right to reveal it only to the Ministry," she coldly
replied.
"Is--is it so important as that?" he asked. But his tone had changed.
She had made a move as if the interview were over.
"So important that for you to be the master of it will make you master
of the Ministry and----"
"Bah!" he ejaculated, contemptuously. He was master of them already.
"And the mere publicity of it would send your name throughout the
civilized world in a day!"
"Speak up, then; don't be afraid----"
"It is such that, no matter what you may do in the future, nothing
would give you greater reputation."
"But, ma fillette,"--it was the utmost expression of his official
confidence,--"and for you, more money, eh?"
"No, no! It is not money!"
She spoke up sharply now.
"Good!" said he, "for you won't get it."
"It is not a question of money, monsieur. If I----"
"There is no 'if' about it!" he exclaimed, irritated at her bargaining
manner and again flying into a passion. "You'll furnish the
information you're paid to furnish, and without any 'question' or
'if,' or I'll put you behind the bars. Yes, sacré bleu! on a diet of
bread and water!"
He was angry that she had the whip hand and that she was driving him.
"Certainly, monsieur,"--and her tone was freezingly polite,--"but then
I will furnish it to the Ministry, as I'm specially instructed in such
cases to do."
"Then why do you come to me with it?" he demanded.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I would do you a favor if you would let
me----"
"For a substantial favor in return!"
"Precisely."
"Ugh! of course!"
"Of course, monsieur,--partly. Partly because you have been kind to
me, generally, and I would now reciprocate that kindness."
"So! Well, mademoiselle, now we understand each other, how much?"
"Monsieur?"
"I say how much money do you want?"
"But, monsieur--no, we do not understand each other. I said it is not
a question of money. If I wanted money I could get it at the
Ministry,--yes, thousands of francs!"
"Perhaps you overrate your find, mademoiselle," he suggested, but with
unconcealed interest.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed.
"It ought to be very important indeed," she continued, "equally
important to you in its suppression, monsieur."
"Ah!"
The fishy eyes were very active.
"And who besides you possesses this secret?"
"Monsieur Marot."
"So! He alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"In a word, mademoiselle, then, what is it that you want?"
"Liberty!"
The inspector started back, confused.
"What's that?" he growled, warily.
"I said 'liberty.' I mean freedom from this service! I'm tired,
monsieur! I would be free! I would live!"
The veteran looked at her first with incredulity, then astonishment,
then pity. He began to think the girl was really crazy, and that her
story was probably all a myth. He suddenly turned the lantern from
under his cloak upon her upturned face, and he saw that which thrilled
him, but which he could not understand.
It was the first time within Inspector Loup's experience that he had
found any one wanting to quit--actually refusing good money to
quit--the Secret System, having once enjoyed its delightful
atmosphere.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"
But he was so much involved in his mental struggle with this new phase
of detective life that he did not answer. He had figured it out.
"So! I think I understand now. But why quit? You have struck something
better; but, surely, mademoiselle, one can be in love and yet do one's
duty to the State."
"Monsieur!"
"Oh, well; you can resign, can't you? Nobody hinders you." And be a
fool! was in Monsieur l'Inspecteur's tone.
"Yes; but that is not all, monsieur. I want it with your free consent
and written quittance,--and more, your word of honor that I will never
be molested by you or your agents,--that I will be as if I had never
been!"
"And if I agree to all this----"
"I shall prove my good faith."
"When?"
"At once!"
"Good! Then we _do_ understand each other," he said, taking her hand
for the first time in his life.
"I trust you, monsieur."
"You have my word. But you will permit me to give you a last word of
fatherly advice before I cease to know you. Keep that gay young lover
of yours out of mischief; he will never again get off as easily as he
did the other day."
"Thanks, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" said Mlle. Fouchette, very glad
indeed now that the lantern was not turned on her.
"Allons!" he cried, looking about him. "And my men, mademoiselle?"
"I would put two at the door where you met us--out of sight--and leave
two in the Rue St. Jacques where we shall enter,--until you see for
yourself,--the coast is clear."
"Good!" said he, and he gave the necessary orders.
Inspector Loup issued from the Rue Soufflot entrance an hour later
with a look of keen satisfaction.
Between the royalists on the one hand, and the republicans on the
other, there were gigantic possibilities for an official of Inspector
Loup's elasticity of conscience.
He had first of all enjoined strict silence on the part of Mlle.
Fouchette and Jean Marot.
"For the public safety," he said.
During his inspection of the premises he had found opportunity to
secretly transfer an envelope to the hand of Mlle. Fouchette. For the
chief of the Secret System was too clever not to see the shoe that
pinched Mlle. Fouchette's toes, and, while despising her weakness, was
loyal to his obligation.
As soon as Mlle. Fouchette had bidden Jean good-night and found
herself in her own room, she took this envelope from her pocket and
drew near the lamp.
It was marked "To be opened to-morrow."
She felt it nervously. It crackled. She squeezed it between her thumb
and forefinger. She held it between her eyes and the light. In vain
the effort to pierce its secrets.
The old tower clock behind the Panthéon mumbled two.
"Dame!" she said, "it is to-morrow!"
And she hastily ripped the missive open.
Something bluish white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
It was a new, crisp note of five hundred francs!
She trembled so that she sank into the nearest chair, crushing the
paper in her hand. Her little head was so dizzy--really--she could
scarcely bring it to bear upon anything.
Except one thing,--that this unexpected wealth stood between her and
what an honest young woman dreads most in this world!
The tears slowly trickled down the pale cheeks,--tears for which it
is to be feared only the angels in heaven gave Mlle. Fouchette due
credit.
Suddenly she started up in alarm. But it was only some belated lodger,
staggering on the stairs. She examined the lock on her door and
resolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of her
bed.
The fear which accompanies possession was new to her.
Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out the
bank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everything
printed on it, and kissed it again and again.
One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she could
tell no one of her good fortune. Not that Mlle. Fouchette was bavarde,
but happiness unshared is only half happiness.
She went to the thin place in the wall and listened. Jean was snoring.
She could look him in the face now.
It was a lot of money to have at one time,--with what she had already
more than she had ever possessed at once in her life.
Freedom and fortune!
She picked up the envelope which had been hastily discarded for the
fortune it had contained.
Hold! here was something more! She saw that it was her quittance,--her
freedom! Her face, already happy and smiling, became joyous.
It was merely a lead-pencil scrawl on a leaf from Inspector Loup's
note-book saying that----
As she read it her head swam.
"Oh! mon Dieu! It is impossible! Not Fouchette? I am not--and Mlle.
Remy is my sister! Ah! Mère de Dieu! And Jean--oh! grand Dieu!"
She choked with her emotions.
"I shall die! What shall I do? What shall I do? And Lerouge, my
half-brother! I shall surely die!"
With the paper crumpled in her folded hands she sank to her knees
beside the big chair and bowed her head. Her heart was full to
bursting, but in her deep perplexity she could only murmur, "What
shall I do? what shall I do?"
* * * * *
Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hear
the clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rather
metallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He had
never heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle.
Fouchette:
"Il est une rue à Paris,
Où jamais ne passe personne,"--
and the rest came feebly and shrilly from the depths of his kitchen,--
"La nuit tous les chats qui sont gris
Y tiennent leur cour polissonne."
"Oh! oui da!" he cried from his bed. "Yes! and the cats sometimes get
arrested, too, hein?"
The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a small
blonde head and a laughing face appeared.
"Not up yet? For shame, monsieur!"
"What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock, lazybones."
"Ten----"
"Yes. Aren't you hungry?"
"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.
"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.
"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was
dressing,--he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,--"the
little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as
guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."
He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat
coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air
with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette
herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up,
but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning
wrapper.
His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance,
falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.
"My faith! you are quite--but, say, little one, what's up?"
"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours,
Monsieur Lazybones."
"But----"
"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk
bill,--deux francs cinquante, and gave that épicière a piece of my
mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs à la coque; for, while the
eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to have
it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"
Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq
centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra,
which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that
coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon
ami,--only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a
pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."
It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their joint
household. He paid about as much attention as usual,--which was none
at all,--his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuine
comfort of the place.
"And the flowers, petite----"
"Of course," she hastily interrupted, "I pay for the flowers."
"No! no!" he explained. "I don't mean that! Is it your birthday,
or----"
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "that is it, Monsieur Jean. I was born
this morning!"
He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had not
caught her real meaning.
"From the marguerites----"
"Ah, çà! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't they
sweet? How I love the flowers!"
"But I never saw such a remarkable effect, somehow. They are only
flowers, and----"
"'Only flowers'! Say, now!"
"Still, it is curious," he added, resuming his coffee and rolls, as if
the subject were not worth an argument or was too intangible to
grasp. He could not account for the change in Mlle. Fouchette.
And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he was
he would not have been able to understand the divine process by which
human happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance.
"Mon ami," said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admiration
gave her, "do you, then, forget what we have to do to-day?"
"Lerouge? Yes,--that's so,--at once!"
Immediately after breakfast Jean sat down and wrote a friendly, frank
letter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger and
expressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend.
"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your political
opinions and----"
"Oh!"
"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with these
conspirators."
"But, Fouchette----"
"Last night's discoveries ought to satisfy any reasonable being."
"True enough, petite."
"Then why not say so to----"
"Not yet,--I prefer acts rather than words,--but in good time----"
It is more difficult for a man to bring himself to the acknowledgment
of political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law.
In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed the
breakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace.
"It is very singular," he repeated to himself after she had departed
upon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl--really, I
don't know just what to think of her."
So he ceased to think of her at all, which was, perhaps, after all,
the easiest way out of the mental dilemma.
The fact was that Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming necessary to him.
With a light heart and eager step she tripped down the Boulevard St.
Michel towards the ancient Isle de la Cité. On the bridge she saw the
dark shadow of the Préfecture loom up ahead of her, and her face,
already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as she
thought of her moral freedom.
The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-passers, but
this did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching a
recognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette.
The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric
shock. She stopped short,--so suddenly that those who immediately
followed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavily
veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift
glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic
step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.
"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,--a voice which
startled those who dodged the physical shock,--and added to herself,
"It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She
loves!"
It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the
Préfecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre
Dame.
Ah, çà!
And after years of servitude,--from childhood,--some of it a servitude
of the most despicable nature,--she had at last struck off the
shackles!
No,--she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom
she feared and hated for one she loved--adored!
Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and
boldly past the very front door of the Préfecture,--"like any other
lady," she would have said.
An agent of the Préfecture, who knew her from having worked with her,
happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He
observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.
"Something is in the wind," said he.
But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter
the Préfecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.
Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring to
accost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence.
It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in the
dance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yards
before a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with an
oath.
"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems to be a feminine
chase." And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt.
Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Préfecture and
made straight for the Hôtel Dieu.
Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidently
growing more and more agitated.
And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from the
Préfecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossing
the broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three going
the same way would not have attracted attention.
Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a
letter from her bosom.
"That letter! Sacré! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled
woman, aloud.
"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.
Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.
"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered
proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.
The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's
osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.
"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"
"Go! I must have that letter!"
She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye
ablaze with wrath.
"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Préfecture!"
"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to free
herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."
"Your best friend, too!"
"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.
"Oh, no; not quite,--only an agent from the Préfecture, my bird."
"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her!
D'you hear that? À mort! The miserable moucharde!"
"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip
for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me,
deary. Come!"
"I tell you I'll kill her!"
"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to
sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp,
now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the
streets! Understand?"
Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene,
passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in
the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de
la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping
and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Préfecture.