A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to all
appearances the latter had ignored it and its author.
Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils;
but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of
course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful
to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and
other dire uncertainties.
As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritability
on their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And as
doting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon become
fixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. Fouchette naturally became the
servant of the somewhat masterful Jean Marot.
She cheerfully accepted these exactions of his variable temper along
with the responsibility for the economical administration of his
domestic affairs.
But even the brightest and most willing of servants cannot always
anticipate what is in the master's mind; so Jean had come to giving
orders to Mlle. Fouchette. He had not yet beaten her, but the careless
observer might have ventured the opinion that this would come in time.
It is the character of Frenchmen to beat women,--to stab them in the
back one day when they are bored with them. The Paris press furnishes
daily examples of this sort of chivalry. As a rule, the life of wife
or mistress in France is a condition little short of slavery.
The mere arrangement of words is unimportant to the woman who
anticipates blows, and who, doubtless, after the fierce fashion of the
Latins, would love more intensely when these blows fell thickest and
heaviest. As for being ordered about and scolded, it was a recognition
of his dependence upon her.
Over and above all other considerations was Jean's future happiness.
In this, at least, they were harmonious. For Jean himself was also
looking solely to that end.
Since that memorable night when one brief pencilled sentence from
Inspector Loup had bestowed upon her a new birth she found double
reason for every sacrifice. She not only trampled her love underfoot
with new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards the
reconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge.
Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain the
young man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescent
she ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported to
Jean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom she
had formerly expressed only dislike.
Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct,--a woman is
never bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. She never
asked to see Lerouge,--never sent in her name to him,--but merely
inquired, saying she was sent by one of his old friends. As she had
intended, the name of this friend, Jean Marot, had been finally
carried to Henri Lerouge.
One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervous
that it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of one
of the great stone columns. She had watched for this opportunity for
days; yet when it suddenly presented itself she could only hide,
trembling, and permit the girl to pass without a word.
"If I could only touch her!--feel her pretty fingers in my hand! Ah!
but can I ever bring myself to that without betrayal? They would be so
happy! and I,--why should I not be happy also? I love him,--I love
her,--and if they love each other,--she can help it no more than
he,--it would be impossible!"
Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remy
disappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herself
over and over again, as if the resolution she had taken required
constant bracing and strengthening.
And it did require it.
For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut out
for herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist.
Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as is
seen,--it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owed
her reputation--of the feline claws and ready boot-heel--had vanished
and left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally she
had not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herself
on the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soul
were absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in her
self-abasement.
Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther,--would have deliberately and
gladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar of
her affections. She had no moral scruples, being only a poor little
heathen among the heathen.
Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jean
had not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended by
secretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superior
to other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to the
image in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her complete
devotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal and
prostrated herself more humbly.
Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar.
As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he really
deserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and a
common type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fell
swoop, constructed a calendar to suit themselves, and worshipped
Reason in Notre Dame represented by a ballet dancer. In other words,
he was an egoist of the egoists of earth.
He was, in fact, so unbearably a bear in his treatment of little
Fouchette that only the most extraordinary circumstances would seem to
excuse him.
And the circumstances were quite extraordinary. Jean was suffering
from personal notoriety. Unseen hands were tossing him about and
pulling him to pieces. Unknown purposes held him as in a vice.
Within the last two weeks his mail had grown from two to some twenty
letters a day,--most of which letters were not only of a strongly
incendiary nature, but expressed a wholly false conception of his
political position and desires. He was being inundated by
indiscriminate praise and abuse. There were reams of well-meant advice
and quires of threats of violence.
Among these letters had been some enclosing money and drafts to a
considerable amount,--to be used in a way which was plainly apparent.
From a distinguished royalist he had received in a single cover the
sum of ten thousand francs "for the cause." From another had come five
thousand francs for his "personal use." Various smaller sums
aggregated not less than ten thousand francs more, most of which was
to be expended at discretion in the restoration of a "good" and
"stable" and "respectable" government to unhappy France. Besides cash
were drafts and promises,--the latter reaching unmeasured sums. And
interspersed with all these were strong hints of political preferment
that would have turned almost any youthful head less obstinate than
that which ornamented the broad shoulders of Jean Marot.
At first Jean was amused, then he was astonished. Finally he became
indignant and angry to the bursting-point.
It was several days before he could adequately comprehend what had
provoked this furious storm, with its shower of money and warning
flashes of wrath and rumblings of violence. Then it became clear that
he was being made the political tool of the reactionary combination
then laying the axe at the root of the republican tree. The
Orléanists, Bonapartists, Anti-Semites, and their allies were quick to
see the value of a popular leader in the most turbulent and
unmanageable quarter of Paris. The Quartier Latin was second only to
Montmartre as a propagating bed for revolution; the fiery youth of the
great schools were quite as important as the butchers of La Villette.
The conclusions of the young leader were materially assisted and
hastened by the flattering attention with which he was received by the
young men wearing royalist badges, and by the black looks from the
more timid republicans. He thereupon avoided the streets of the
quarter, and devoted his time to answering such letters as bore
signature and address. He sought to disabuse the public mind, so far
as the writers were concerned, by declaring his adherence to the
republic, and by returning the money so far as possible.
Jean Marot had now for the first time, with many others, turned his
attention to the revelations in the Dreyfus case as appeared in the
_Figaro_, and saw with amazement the use being made of a wholly
fictitious crisis to destroy French liberty. He was appalled at these
disclosures. Not that they demonstrated the innocence of a condemned
man, but because they showed the utter absence of conscience on the
part of his accusers and the criminal ignorance of the military
leaders on whom France relied in the hour of public danger. For the
first time he saw, what the whole civilized world outside of France
had seen with surprise and indignation, that the conviction of Captain
Dreyfus rested upon the testimony of a staff-officer of noble blood
who lived openly and shamelessly on the immoral earnings of his
mistress, and who was the self-acknowledged agent of a maison de
toleration on commission. In the person of this distinguished member
of the "condotteri" was centred the so-called "honor of the army." As
for the so-called "evidence," no police judge of England or America
would have given a man five days on it.
Matters were at this stage when one morning about a fortnight since
the day Mlle. Fouchette had changed masters they reached the
bursting-point. Jean suddenly jumped from his seat where he had been
looking over his mail and broke into a torrent of invective.
"Dame!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coming in from the kitchen in the act of
manipulating a plate with a towel,--"surely, Monsieur Jean, it can't
be as bad as that!"
"Mille tonnerres!" cried Jean, kicking the chair viciously,--"it's
worse!"
"Worse?"
"Fouchette, you're a fool!"
Mlle. Fouchette kicked the door till it rattled. She also used oaths,
rare for her.
"Stop!" he roared. "What in the devil's name are you doing that for?
Stop!"
"Why not? I don't want to be a fool. I want to do just as you do,
monsieur!"
"Oh, yes! it is funny; but suppose Inspector Loup wanted you for a
spy----"
The plate slipped to the floor with a loud crash.
"There!" he exclaimed. And seeing how confused she got,--"Never mind,
Fouchette. Come here! Look at that!"
Inspector Loup had politely requested Monsieur Marot to furnish
privately any information in connection with the recent discoveries at
his appartement which might be useful to the government,--especially
in the nature of correspondence, etc.
As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Télégraphes and
had not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, going
and coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who never
use the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the Secret
System, prefer direct communication.
"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused the
letter.
"It is damnable!" said Jean.
"Still, it is his business to know."
"It is a miserable business,--a dishonorable business! And Monsieur
l'Inspecteur will follow his dirty trade without any help from me!"
"Very surely!" said Mlle. Fouchette, emphatically.
"I've had enough of politics."
"Good!" cried she, gleefully.
"But, I'd like to punch the fellow who wrote this," he muttered,
tearing an insulting letter into little bits and throwing them on the
floor.
She laughed. "But that is politics," she remarked.
"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we
are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"
"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning
smile,--"why not others?"
"I--I--mille diables!"
"What! Another?"
"Worse!"
He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden passion.
"It is very provoking, but----"
"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.
She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,--
"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the
mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter
and protection."
"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.
"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.
"Ah! mon Dieu!"
She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.
"He cannot know!--he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has
only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon
ami!"
"Well!" sighed the young man,--"let us see,--a telegram? I hadn't
noticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father can
write his son."
He read in silence, then passed it to her with a shrug of the
shoulders.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp!" she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"'Come to Brussels at once.'"
"It is the Duc d'Orléans."
"Bah!"
"He knows, then, that I am in possession."
"Yes,--certainly."
"Probably wants me to take charge of his guns----"
"And dynamite bombs----"
"The wretches!"
"You can tell him you have turned them over to Inspector Loup."
"I will, pardieu!"
He was inspecting the superscription of the next envelope.
"Something familiar about that. Ah! its from Lerouge!"
"Lerouge!"
"Very good, very good! Look!"
Jean jumped up excitedly,--this time with evident pleasure.
"Coming here! and to-night! Good!"
"Oh! I'm so glad, mon ami!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "And, see!
'toi!'--he calls you 'thee;' he is not angry!"
The note from Lerouge was simply a line, as if in answer to something
of the day.
"Merci,--je serai chez toi ce soir."
"'Toi,'--it is good!" said the girl.
"Yes, it looks fair. And Henri always had the way of getting a world
of meaning in a few words."
"It is as if there had occurred nothing."
"Yes,--to-night,--and we must prepare him a welcome of some kind. I
will write him as to the hour. Let us say a supper, eh, Fouchette?"
"A supper? and here? to-night?"
Mlle. Fouchette recoiled with dismay written in every line of her
countenance.
"I don't see anything so strange or horrible about that," said Jean.
"I did not propose to serve _you_ for supper."
"N-no; only----"
"Well?"
Mlle. Fouchette was greatly agitated. He looked at her curiously.
Monsieur Lerouge coming to see him and coming to supper--where she
must be present--were widely different propositions according to Mlle.
Fouchette; for she had hailed the first with delight and the second in
utter confusion.
"Fouchette, why don't you say at once that you don't want to do it!"
he brutally added.
"You do not understand. Would it be well for--for you, mon ami? It is
not for myself. He probably does not know me."
"What if he does? It strikes me that you are growing mighty nice of
late. I don't see what Lerouge has to do with you,--and you have
pretended----"
"Pretended? Oh, monsieur! I beg----"
"Very well," he interrupted. "We can go out to a restaurant, I
suppose, since you don't seem to want to take that trouble for me."
"Oh, monsieur!" she protested, earnestly, "it is not that; I would be
glad, only--if it were not Lerouge."
"And why not Lerouge, pray?"
"But, mon ami, would he not tell his sister that----"
"Nonsense!"
"I know----" she hesitated.
"Pouf! Lerouge will not know you. And what if he did recognize
the--the----"
"Savatière----"
"Yes; what, then? But, say! Fouchette, you shall wear that pretty
bonne costume I got you. Hein?"
"But, mon ami,--mon cher ami! I'd rather not do it," she faltered.
"If Mademoiselle Remy should hear of it----"
"Bah! I know Lerouge. He'd think you my servant, my model. And have
you not your own private establishment to retire to in case--really,
you must!"
"W-well, be it so, Monsieur Jean; but if harm comes of it----"
"It will be my fault, not yours. It goes!"
Thus Jean, having reduced the "Savatière" to the condition of
unsalaried servitude, now insisted upon her dressing the part.
He had paid her no empty compliment when he said that she looked her
best as a maid. He had fitted her out for an evening at the Bullier
for twenty-five francs. In the Quakerish garb of a French bonne she
had never looked so demurely sweet in her life. The short skirt showed
a pair of small feet and neat round ankles. Her spotless apron
accentuated the delicacy of the slender waist. And with a cute white
lace cap perched coquettishly over the drooping blonde hair--well,
anybody could see that Mlle. Fouchette (become simply Fouchette by
this metamorphosis) was really a pretty little woman.
And Jean kissed her on both cheeks and laughed at her because they
reddened, and swore she was the sweetest little "bonne à toute faire"
in all the world.
No doubt Marie Antoinette and her court ladies looked most charming
when they played peasant at Petit Trianon; for it is a curious fact
that many women show to better physical advantage in the simple
costume of a neat servant than in the silks and diamonds of the
mistress.
As for Fouchette, she was truly artistic, and she knew it. The
knowledge that Jean comprehended this and admired her caused her eyes
to shine and her blood to circulate more quickly. And a woman would be
more than mortal who is not to be consoled by the consciousness of a
successful toilet.
Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs and
broken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothing
whether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now,--ah! it was a cruel
test of her.
True, she must meet Lerouge some time. Oh! surely. She must see Mlle.
Remy, too,--she must look into his sombre eyes,--feel the gentle touch
of her hands! Often,--yes; often!
For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might--why
not? She would become their domestic, could she not?
Only, to meet Lerouge here,--in this way!
It was a bitter struggle, but love conquered.
Nevertheless, she felt that she required all of her natural courage,
all the cleverness learned of rogues and the stoicism engrafted by
suffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow the
chosen path to the end.
"How charming you look, Fouchette!" he exclaimed, when she appeared in
the evening.
"Thanks, monsieur."
She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face was
wreathed in smiles.
"But, I say, mon enfant, you are really pretty."
"Ah, çà!"
She was blushing,--painfully, because she knew that she was blushing.
He put his arm about her waist and attempted to kiss her.
"No, no, no!" she cried, with an air of vexation,--"go away!"
"But you are really artistic, Fouchette. I must have a sitting of you
in that costume."
He had made several sketches of her head, she serving as a model for
Mlle. Remy. Only, he filled them out to suit his ideal. Mlle.
Fouchette saw this; yet she was always pleased to pose for him.
"That is, if you are good," he added, in his condescending way.
"Have no fear,--I'll be good."
"Une bonne bonne, say."
"Bon-bon? Va!"
"And can sit still long enough."
"There! I can't sit still now, monsieur. The dinner,--it is nearly
time."
She had set out the table with the best their mutual resources
afforded. She had run up and down the street after whatever seemed
necessary earlier in the day. Now that final arrangement had come,
nothing seemed quite satisfactory. She changed this, replaced that
with something else, ran backward a moment to take in the ensemble,
then changed things back again. She had the exquisite French
perception of the incongruous in form and color. Between times she was
diving in and out of the little kitchen, where the soup was simmering
and where a chicken from the nearest rôtisserie was being thoroughly
warmed up. And in her lively comings and goings she wore a bright
smile and kept up the incessant purr, purr, purr of a vivacious
tongue.
"And you must have champagne!" said she, reproachfully.
He had come in with the bottles under his arm. "You should have let me
purchase it, at least. How much?"
"Ten francs."
"Ten francs! It is frightful! And two for this claret, I'll warrant!"
"More than that, innocent."
"What! more than----"
"Four francs."
She held up her little hands, speechless, being unable to do justice
to his extravagance. He laughed.
"It is an important occasion," said he. "But, really, you are simply
astonishing, little one."
"Là, là, là!"
Jean had an artistic sense, and Mlle. Fouchette now appealed to it. He
watched her skipping about the place and tried to reconcile this
sweet, bright-eyed, light-hearted creature with the woman he had known
as "La Savatière."
"Que diable! but she is--well, what in the name of all the goddesses
has come over the girl, anyhow? It can't be that Lerouge--yet she
didn't want to have him see her here."
Conscious of this scrutiny, Fouchette would have been compelled to
retreat to the kitchen on some pretext if she had not got this
occasional shelter by necessity. She was so happy. Her heart was so
light she could not be quite certain if she were really on the earth
or not. Never had Jean looked so handsome to her.
"Dame! It is nothing," she said and repeated over and over to
herself,--"it is nothing; and yet I am surely the happiest girl in the
world. Oh, when he looks at me with his beautiful eyes like that I
feel as if I could fly! Mon Dieu! but if he touched me now I should
faint! I should die!"
A vigorous ring at the door smote her ear. She trembled.
"Well, why don't you go, melon?" He spoke with a sharpness that fell
on her like a blow.
She fumbled nervously at her apron-strings.
"Go as you are, stupid!"
"Yes, monsieur."
If her heart had not already fallen suddenly to zero, it would have
dropped there when she opened the vestibule door.
The elderly image of Jean Marot stood before her. Somewhat stouter of
figure and broader of feature, with full grayish beard and moustache
that concealed the outlines of the lower face, but still such a
striking likeness of father to son that even one less versed in the
human physiognomy than Mlle. Fouchette must have at once recognized
Marot père. The deeply recessed eyes looked darker and seemed to burn
more fiercely than Jean's, and more accurately suggested Lerouge.
Indeed, to the casual observer the man might have been the father of
either of the two young men. In bearing and attire the figure was that
of the prosperous French manufacturer. His voice was coldly harsh and
imperious.
"So! mademoiselle!"
He paused in the vestibule and gazed searchingly at the trembling
little woman with a fierce glare that made her feel as if she were
being shrivelled up where she stood.
"So! May I inquire whether I am on the threshold of Monsieur Jean
Marot's appartement or that of his--his----"
He was evidently making an effort to preserve his calmness, but the
words seemed to choke him.
The implication, though not at once fully understood by Mlle.
Fouchette, had the effect of rousing her powers of resistance.
"It is Monsieur Marot's, monsieur," she replied, with dignity.
"And you are----"
"His servant, monsieur."
"Oh! So!"
"And you, monsieur----"
"I am his father, mademoiselle."
"Ah!" He need not have told her that.
At this instant the inner door was thrown wide open, and Jean, who had
recognized his father's voice with consternation, was in the opening.
Father and son stood thus confronting each other for some seconds,
mute,--the father sternly and with unrelenting eye, the son with a
pride sustained by obstinacy and bitterness. The sting of his father's
letter was fresh, and he nerved himself for further insults. Nor had
he to wait long, for his father advanced upon him as he retired into
the room, with a growing menace in his tone at every successive step.
"So! Here you are, you--you----"
"Father!"
The old man had excitedly raised his hand as if to strike his son
without further words, but he found Mlle. Fouchette between them.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now,--not
now!"
The elder Marot glanced at her as if she were some sort of vermin.
This at first, then he hesitated before kicking her out of the way.
"Ah, messieurs! is it the way to reconciliation and love to go at it
in hot blood and hard words? Take a little time,--there is plenty and
to spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will you
not? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? And
remember, he is your father, monsieur. Remember that before you speak.
It is easy to say hard words, but the cure is slow and difficult,
messieurs. Why not deliberate and reason without anger?"
As she talked she placed chairs, towards one of which she gently urged
Marot senior. Then she insisted upon taking his hat. A man with his
hat off is not so easily roused to anger as he is with it on, nor can
one maintain his resentment at the highest pitch while sitting down.
There was this much gained by Mlle. Fouchette's diplomacy.
But the first glance about the room restored the father's
belligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, the
wine----
"I am honored, monsieur," he said to his son, sarcastically, "though I
had no idea that you expected me."
"It is--er--I had a friend----"
"Oh! I know quite well I have no reason to anticipate such a royal
welcome. Yet there are three plates----"
"That was for Fouchette," said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "You
will be welcome at my humble table, father."
"Fouchette,"--he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making a
pretence of arranging the table,--"and so this is Fouchette, eh? And
your humble table, eh?"
The irascible old gentleman regarded both of the adjuncts of life de
garçon with a bitter smile. Still it was something like a smile, and
the girl was quick to take advantage of it.
"Oh, this is a special occasion, monsieur,--a reconciliation dinner."
"A reconciliation dinner, eh?" growled the old man, suspicious of some
sly allusion to himself and son. "And will you be good enough to speak
for this dummy here and inform me who is to be reconciled and what the
devil you've got to do with the operation?"
"To be sure!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, with affected gayety. "Only I
must begin at the last first. I'm the next-door neighbor of Monsieur
Jean, your son, and I take care of his rooms for him--for a
consideration. My appartement is over there, monsieur, if you please.
We are poor, but we must eat----"
"And drink champagne," put in the elder Marot, significantly.
"Is not champagne more fitting for the reconciliation of two men who
were once friends than would be violent words?" she asked, with
spirit.
"Who pays for it? It depends upon who pays for it!" He tried to ward
off the conclusion by hurling this at both of them.
Jean reddened. He knew quite well the insinuation. It is not an
unusual thing for Frenchmen to live on the product of a woman's shame.
"As if you should ask me if I were a thief, father!" protested the
young man, now scarcely able to restrain his tears.
"And as if we had not pinched and saved and economized and all that!
And can you look around you and not see that?" She had hard work to
smother her indignation.
"Come to the point!" retorted the elder Marot, impatiently. "The
woman! Where is the woman?"
Jean reddened more furiously and was more confused than before.
"It can't be this--this"--he regarded the slender, girlish figure
contemptuously--"this grisette ménagère! You are not such a fool as
to----"
"Oh! no, no, no, no!" hastily interrupted Mlle. Fouchette, with great
agitation. "Oh, no, monsieur! Think not that! She is an angel! I am
nothing to him,--nothing! Only a poor little friend,--a servant,
monsieur,--one who wishes him well and would do and give anything to
see him happy! Nothing more, monsieur, I assure you! I--mon Dieu!
nothing more!"
There was almost a wail in her last note of too much protestation.
Both father and son scrutinized her attentively, while the color came
and went in her now downcast face,--the one with a puzzled
astonishment, the other with surprised alarm.
And both understood.
Not being himself a lover, the elder Marot divined at once what Jean,
with all his opportunities, had till now failed to discover.
Another pull at the bell came like a gift from heaven to momentarily
relieve poor little Fouchette of her embarrassment.
Jean started nervously to his feet, in sympathy with her intelligence,
but by no means relieved in mind.
"It is Lerouge," he said, desperately. "Attend, Fouchette!"
The father glanced from one to the other quickly, inquiringly.
"Lerouge?"
"Yes, father,--it is he,--the friend--whom we--whom I expect--to whom
I owe reparation----"
The two men studied each other in silence for the few seconds that
followed, and Jean saw something like aroused curiosity and wonderment
in his father's face,--something that had suddenly taken the place of
anger.
Mlle. Fouchette had anticipated the coming of Lerouge with quite a
different sentiment to that which overpowered Jean. The latter saw in
it only the ruin of his most cherished hopes. Fouchette, on the other
hand, with the quicker and surer intuition of the woman, believed the
time now ripe for the reconciliation of not only Jean and Lerouge, but
of father and son. It would be impossible for Jean and his father to
quarrel before this third party. Time would be gained. And then, were
not the two affairs one? The straightening out of the tangle between
the friends must carry with it the better understanding between Jean
and his father.
As to herself, the girl had not one thought. She was completely lifted
out of self,--carried away with the intentness of her solicitude for
Jean's future.
The situation appealed to her sharpest instincts. Its possibilities
passed through her alert mind before she had reached the door.
Glorified in her purpose, she flung it wide open.
She was confronted by two persons,--the one bowing, hat in hand; the
other smiling, radiantly beautiful.
Mlle. Fouchette stood for a moment like one suddenly turned to stone.
This was more than she had bargained for. She leaned against the wall
instinctively, as if needing more substantial support than her limbs.
Her throat seemed parched, so that when she would have spoken the
result was merely a spasmodic gasp. Even the friendly semi-darkness of
the little antechamber failed to hide her confusion from her visitors.
Then, recovering her self-possession by a violent effort, she reopened
the inner door and announced, feebly,--
"Monsieur Lerouge,--Mademoiselle Remy!"