"C'est fini!"
The girl raised herself wearily from her knees by the side of her bed,
where she had fallen when she had bravely gotten rid of Jean and
Andrée.
"C'est fini!"
She repeated the words as she looked around the room, the poor, cheap
little chamber where she had been so happy. Just so has many a
bereaved returned from the freshly made grave of some beloved to see
the terrible emptiness of life in every corner of the silent home.
Mlle. Fouchette had grievously overrated her capacity to bear--to
suffer. Instead of lightening the load she had assumed, the discovery
of her sister in the beloved had doubled it.
She had schooled herself to believe that to be near the object of her
love would be enough. She had thought that all else, being impossible,
might be subordinated to the great pleasure of presence. That to serve
him daily, to share after a fashion his smiles and sorrows, to be at
his elbow with her sympathy and counsel, would be her happiness,--all
that she could ask for in this world. It would be almost as good as
marriage, n'est-ce pas?
Fouchette was in error. Not wholly as to the last assumption; it was a
false theory, marriage or no marriage. Countless thousands of better
and more intellectual people have in other ways found, are finding,
will continue to find, it to be so.
Mlle. Fouchette's tactical training in the great normal school of
life had not embraced Love. Therefore no line of retreat had been
considered. She was not only defeated, she was overwhelmed.
All of her theories had vanished in a breath.
Instead of finding happiness in the happiness of those whom she loved,
it was torture,--the thumbscrew and the rack. It was terrible!
How could she have imagined that she might live contentedly under this
day after day?
The malice of Lerouge had been but the knock-out blow. It seemed to
her now that his part was not half so cruel as that one kiss,--the
kiss of Andrée's, that had stolen hers, Fouchette's, from his warm
lips!
Yes, it was finished.
There was nothing to live for now. Her sun had set. The light had gone
out, leaving her alone, friendless, without a future.
The fact that she had herself willed it, brought it about, and that
she earnestly desired their happiness, made her despair none the less
dark and profound.
She felt that she must get away,--must escape in some way from the
consequences of her own folly.
She precipitated herself down the narrow stairs at the risk of her
neck and darted down the Rue St. Jacques half crazed with grief. She
had made no change in her attire, had not even paused to restrain the
blonde hair that fell over her face.
Rue St. Jacques is in high feather at this hour in the evening. It is
the hour of the jolly roysterer, male and female. Students, soldiers,
bohemians, and bums jostle each other on the corners, while the dame
de trottoir stealthily lurks in the shadows with one eye out for
possible victims and the other for the agents de police. The cafés and
wine-shops are aglare and the terrasse chairs are crowded to their
fullest of the day.
The spectacle, therefore, of a pretty bonne racing along the middle of
the street very naturally attracted considerable attention.
This attention became excitement when another woman, who seemed to
spring from the same source, broke away in hot pursuit of the servant.
Nothing so generously appealed to the sensitiveness of Rue St. Jacques
as a case of jealousy, and women-baiting was a favorite amusement of
the quarter.
There was now a universal howl of delight and approbation. When the
pursuing woman tripped and fell into the gutter the crowd greeted the
unfortunate with a shower of unprintable pleasantries.
"Ma foi! but she is outclassed!"
"Oh, she's only stopped to rest."
"Too much absinthe!"
"The cow can never catch the calf!"
"The fat salope! To think she could have any show in a race or in love
with the pretty bonne!"
"Yes; but where's the man?"
"Dame! It is one-eyed Mad!"
"Let her alone,--she's drunk!"
The fallen woman had laboriously regained her feet and turned a
torrent of vulgar maledictions upon the jeering crowd.
Then, having regained her equilibrium, she staggered forward in
renewed pursuit. The broad-bladed, double-edged knife of the Paris
assassin gleamed in her right hand.
"Bah! she will never catch her," said a man whose attention had been
called to this.
"Let them fight it out," assented his companion.
"Hold! She is down again."
Madeleine had reached the Rue Soufflot, and, in turning the corner
sharply, had fallen against the irregular curb.
The stragglers from the wine-shops hooted. The drunken women fairly
screamed with delight. It was so amusing.
But Madeleine did not get up this time.
This was more amusing still; for the crowd, now considerably augmented
by the refuse from the neighboring tenements, launched all sorts of
humorous suggestions at the prostrate figure, laughing uproariously at
individual wit.
A few ran to where the dark figure lay, and a merry ruffian playfully
kicked the prostrate woman.
Still the woman stirred not.
The ruffian who had just administered the kick slipped and fell upon
her, whereat the crowd fairly split with laughter. It was so droll!
But the man did not join in this, for he saw that he had slipped in a
thin red stream that flowed sluggishly towards the gutter, and that
his hands were covered with warm blood.
"Pardieu! she's dead," he whispered.
And they gently turned her over, and found that it was so.
Madeleine had fallen upon her arm, and the terrible knife was yet
embedded in her heart.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, unconscious of this pursuit and its fatal consequences,
Mlle. Fouchette had swiftly passed from the narrow Rue St. Jacques
into Rue Soufflot, and was flying across the broad Place du Panthéon.
Blind to the glare of the wine-shops, deaf to the gay chanson of a
group of students and grisettes swinging by from the Café du Henri
Murger,--indeed, dead to all the world,--the grief-stricken girl still
ran at the top of her speed--towards----
The river?
Her poor little overtaxed brain was in a whirl. She had no definite
idea of anything beyond getting away. As a patient domestic beast of
burden suddenly resumes his savage state and rushes blindly,
pell-mell, he knows not where, so Mlle. Fouchette now plunged into the
oblivion of the night.
Unconsciously, too, she had taken the road to the river,--the broad
and well-travelled route of the Parisian unfortunate.
Ah! the river!
For the first time it occurred to her now,--how many unbearable griefs
the river had swallowed up.
There were so many things worse than death. One of these was to live
as Madeleine had lived. Never that! Never! Not now,--once, perhaps;
but not now. Oh, no; not now!
The river seemed to beckon to her,--to call upon her, reproachfully,
to come back to it,--to open its slimy arms and invite her to the
palpitating bosom that had soothed the sorrows of so many thousands of
the children of civilization.
And Fouchette was the offspring of the river. Why had she been
spared, then? Had it proved worth while?
She recalled every incident of that eventful period. She remembered
the precise spot where she had been pulled out that gray morning,
years before.
This idea had flitted through her mind, at first vaguely, then, still
unsought, began to assume definite shape.
Eh, bien,--soit! From the river to the river!
Mlle. Fouchette, as we have seen, had all the spontaneity of her race,
accentuated by a life of caprice and reckless abandon. To conceive was
to execute. Consequences were an after-consideration, if at all worthy
of such a thing as consideration.
She stopped. But this hesitation was not in the execution of her
suddenly formed purpose. It was necessary to recover breath, and to
decide whether to go by the way of the Rue Clovis, or to turn down by
the steep of Rue de la Mont Ste. Geneviève to the Boulevard St.
Germain.
It was but for a few panting moments.
The clock of the ancient campanile of the Lycée Henri IV. struck the
hour of eleven. The hoarse, low, booming sound went sullenly rumbling
and roaring up and down the stone-ribbed plaza of the Panthéon, and
rolled and reverberated from the great dome that sheltered the
illustrious dead of France.
The curious old church of St. Étienne du Mont rose immediately in
front of the girl, and the sound of the bells startled her,--shook her
ideas together,--and, with the sight of the church, restored, in a
measure, her presence of mind.
Her thoughts flew instantly back to the happy scene she had recently
left behind. The bells of the old tower,--ah! how often she and Jean
had regulated their ménage by their music!
And she looked up at the grimly mixed pile of four centuries, with its
absurd little round tower, its grotesque gargouilles, and grass-grown
walls,--St. Étienne du Mont.
Doubtless they would be married here.
To be married where reposed the blessed bones of Ste. Geneviève, or at
St. Denis amid the relics of royalty, was the dream of every youthful
Parisienne. And Ste. Geneviève was the patronne of the virgins as well
as of the city of Paris.
Mlle. Fouchette had witnessed a wedding at good old St. Étienne du
Mont,--indeed, any one might see a wedding here upon any day of the
week, and at almost any hour of the day, in season,--and she now
recalled the pretty scene. Yes, of course Jean and Andrée would be
married here.
Obeying a curious impulse, the girl, still breathing heavily, ascended
the broad stone steps and peeped into the little vestibule. The dark
baize door within stood ajar, and she could see the faint twinkle of
distant lights and smell the escaping odors from the last mass.
She would go in--just for a moment--to see again where they would
stand before the altar. It would do no harm. Her last thoughts should
be of those she loved,--loved dearer--yes, a great deal more dearly
than life.
Entering, she mechanically followed her training at Le Bon Pasteur,
and, bending a knee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the font and
crossed her heaving breast.
The great wax tapers were still burning about the ancient altar, and
here and there pairs and bunches of expiatory candles flickered in the
little chapels.
As no other light relieved the sombre blackness of the vaulted
edifice, an indefinite ghostliness prevailed, from out of which the
numerous gilded forms of the Virgin and the saints appeared half
intangible, as if hovering about with no fixed support or substance.
The church might have been deserted, so far as any living indications
were visible, though two or three darker splotches on the darkness
could have been taken for as many penitents seeking the peace which
passeth understanding.
Gliding softly down the right, outside of the pews and row of stately
columns, Mlle. Fouchette stopped only at the last pillar, from which
she had a near view of the pretty white altar. She remained there,
leaning against the pillar, her eyes bent upon the altar, motionless,
for a long time.
During that period she had pictured just how the young couple would
look,--how beautiful the bride would appear,--how noble and handsome
Jean Marot would shine at her side.
She supplied all of the details as she had seen them once before,
correcting and rearranging them in her mind with scrupulous care.
All of this dreamily and without emotion, as one lies in the summer
shade idly tracing the fleeting clouds across a summer's sky.
She had grown wonderfully calm, and when she turned away she gently
put the picture behind her as an accomplished material thing.
On her way she paused before the little chapel of Ste. Geneviève.
There were candles burning before the altar, and a delicious, holy
incense filled the air.
Mlle. Fouchette recalled the stories of the intercession of Ste.
Geneviève in behalf of virgin suppliants, and impetuously fell upon
her knees outside the railing and bowed her face in her hands.
She knew absolutely nothing of theological truth and error; religion
was to her only a vague scheme devised for other people--not for her.
She had never in all her life uttered a prayer save on compulsion.
Now, impulsively and without forethought, she was kneeling before the
altar and acknowledging God and the intercession of the Christ.
It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity--the weakest and
the strongest, the worst and the best--to seek in the hour of
suffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden the
load of life.
To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did not
know how,--and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteur
seemed the mere empty rattle of beads.
She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything by
halves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, passionately, and with the hot
tears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word.
It would have been, from her point of view, quite impertinent for her
to thrust her little affairs directly before the Throne. She was too
timid even to appeal to the Holy Virgin, as she had often heard others
do, with the familiarity of personal acquaintance; but she felt that
she might approach Ste. Geneviève, patronne des vierges, with some
confidence, if not a sense of right.
She silently and tearfully laid her heart bare to Ste. Geneviève, and
with her whole passionate soul called upon her for support and
assistance. If ever a young virgin needed help it was she, Fouchette,
and if Ste. Geneviève had any influence at the higher court, now was
the time to use it. First it was that Jean and Andrée might be happy
and think of her kindly now and then; next, that she might be forgiven
for everything up to date and be permitted to be good,--that some way
might be opened to her, and that she might be kept in that way.
Otherwise she must surely die.
If Sister Agnes might only be restored to her, it would be enough. It
was all she would ask,--the rest would follow. She must have Sister
Agnes,--good Sister Agnes, who loved her and would protect her and
lead her safely to the better life. Oh! only send her Sister Agnes----
"My child, you are in trouble?"
That gentle voice! The soft, caressing touch!
Ah! le bon Dieu!
It was Sister Agnes, truly!
The religieuse, ever struggling against the desires of the flesh, had
unconsciously kneeled side by side with the youthful suppliant.
Disturbed by the sobs of the latter, she had addressed her
sympathetically.
To poor little ignorant and believing Fouchette it was as if one of
the beautiful painted angels had suddenly assumed life and, leaving
the vaulted ceiling, had come floating down to softly brush her with
her protecting wings. Awe-stricken at what seemed a direct
manifestation of God, she found no words to express either surprise or
joy. She simply toppled over into the arms of the astonished
religieuse and lost consciousness. The reaction was too great.
Sister Agnes, who had not recognized in the girl dressed as a
bonne-à-toute-faire her protégée of Le Bon Pasteur, was naturally
somewhat startled at this unexpected demonstration, and called aloud
for the sacristan.
"Blessed be God!" she exclaimed, when they had carried the girl into
the light of the vestry,--"it is Mademoiselle Fouchette!"
"What's she doing here?" demanded the man, with a mixture of suspicion
and indignation.
"Certainly nothing bad, monsieur. No, it can be nothing bad which
leads a young girl to prostrate herself at this hour before the altar
of the blessed Ste. Geneviève!"
"Ste. Geneviève! That girl? That---- Mère de Dieu! what next?"
"Chut!"
"But it's a sacrilege, my sister. It's a profanation of God's holy
temple!"
"S-sh! monsieur----"
"It's a wonder she was not stricken dead! Before Ste. Geneviève!"
"S-sh! monsieur," protested the religieuse, gently, "ne jugez pas!"
"But----"
"Ne jugez pas!"
They had, in the mean time, applied simple restoratives with such
effect that Mlle. Fouchette soon began to exhibit signs of
reanimation.
"Will you kindly leave me alone with her here for a few minutes?"
whispered Sister Agnes.
"Willingly," replied the ruffled attendant. "And mighty glad to----"
"S-sh!"
When Mlle. Fouchette's eyes were finally opened they first fell upon
the motherly face of Sister Agnes, then wandered rapidly about the
room, as if to fix her situation definitely, to again rest upon the
religieuse. And this look was one of inexpressible content,--of
boundless love and confidence.
Sister Agnes, who was seated on the edge of the sofa on which the girl
lay extended, leaned over and affectionately kissed her lips.
"You are much better now, my child?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! I was afraid it might be only--only a dream,--one
dreams such things, n'est-ce pas? But it is true! There is really a
God, and prayers are answered--when one believes,--yes; when one
believes very hard! Even the prayers of a poor little, miserable,
wicked, motherless girl like me. Ah!----"
"Cer--certainly, chérie; but don't try to talk just yet. Wait a bit.
You will feel stronger."
The religieuse thought the girl's mind was wandering.
"And good Ste. Geneviève heard me and had you sent to me. It was all I
asked. For I knew that if I only had you, I could be good, and I would
know what to do. It was all I asked--for myself. And you were sent at
once. Dear, good, sweet Sister Agnes!--the only one who ever loved
me!--except Tartar,--and love is necessary, n'est-ce pas?"
"You asked for me?"
Sister Agnes listened now with intense interest. Mlle. Fouchette was a
revelation.
"Oh! yes,--and they sent you--almost at once! Blessed Ste. Geneviève!"
"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wiping
her eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. She
tried to speak cheerily.
"Take me as you did when I first saw you,--when I was in the
cell,"--and the voice now was that of a pleading child,--"that way;
yes,--kiss me once more."
On the matronly bosom of Sister Agnes the girl told her story,--the
story of her love, of her suffering, of her hopes, of her final
failure, of her despair.
"You see, my more than mother, it was too much----"
"Too much! I should think so!" interrupted the good sister, brusquely,
to prevent a total breakdown. "Sainte Mère de Dieu! such is for the
angels in heaven, mon enfant,--for mortals, never!"
"When I found she was my sister,--that her brother was my
brother,--and that even Jean Marot--I could not be one to spoil this
happiness by making myself known. No, I would rather die. I should
hate myself even if they did not hate me. No, no, no! I could never do
that!"
"Fouchette, you are an angel!"
The religieuse slipped to the floor at the girl's side, and covered
the small hands with kisses. She felt the insignificance of her own
worldly trials.
"I am not worthy to sit in your presence, Fouchette," she faltered.
* * * * *
As they slowly passed out of the church the younger seemed to support
the elder woman. Both bowed for a few moments in silence before the
altar of Ste. Geneviève.
And when they arose, Mlle. Fouchette took from the bosom of her dress
a bit of folded paper and put it in the box of offerings inside the
rail.
It was the bank-note for five hundred francs.
At the door the grim sacristan, long impatient for this departure,
growled his final disapproval of Mlle. Fouchette.
"She's a terror," he said.
"She's a saint, monsieur," was the quiet reply of Sister Agnes.
A few minutes later the great door of the Dames de St. Michel closed
upon the two women. Mlle. Fouchette had ceased to exist, and Mlle.
Louise Remy had entered upon the coveted life of peace and love.
THE END
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End of Project Gutenberg's Mlle. Fouchette, by Charles Theodore Murray