Mlle. Fouchette Part 57

The latter turned her weapon upon the new-comer just as the two men from below grabbed her. This diversion enabled the infuriated dog-owner to plant both hands in the enemy's hair, which came off at the first wrench.

"Oh!" cried Jean.

"It is horrible!" said Mlle. Fouchette, with a shudder.

From where they beheld the tragedy they could not see that the hair was false.

But the dog-beater was just as angry as if it had been ripped from its original and virgin pasture, and she uttered a shriek that was heard around the block and grappled her three a.s.sailants.

The whole four, a struggling composite ma.s.s of legs and arms, went rolling down to the next landing surrounded by a special and lurid atmosphere of oaths.

There they were arrested by the aroused police agents.

Poor little Tu-tu had stopped howling. He was dead,--crushed under the human avalanche.

"Yes," said Jean, "this is a quiet house."

"Dame!" replied Mlle. Fouchette, "it is like death!"

CHAPTER XVI

An hour later Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette were at the foot of the broad stone steps leading to the Hotel Dieu, the famous hospital fronting on the plaza of Notre Dame.

"I will wait," he said.

"Yes; I will inquire," she a.s.sented. "I was here last night." And Mlle. Fouchette ran lightly up the steps and entered the palatial court.

Another woman was hastily walking in the opposite direction. She bent her head and quickened her steps as if to avoid recognition.

"Why, it is Madeleine!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself in the way.

A face stamped with the marks of dissipation and haggard with watching was raised to meet this greeting. The one big, round, dark orb gleamed upon the speaker almost fiercely.

"So you're here again," muttered the one-eyed grisette, in her deep voice.

"It seems so. I wish to find out how he is."

"What business is it of yours?"

"Oh, come, now, Madeleine; you're all upset. You look worn out. You have been here all night?"

"Ah, ca! it is nothing. Have I not been up all night more than once?"

"And monsieur----"

"They say he is better."

"You have seen him, then?"

"No; they would not allow me. Besides, there is his sister."

"Is she with him now?"

"Not now. They sent her away in the night. She will be back this morning."

"Poor girl!"

"But what is all this to you? Why are you here? Does the Ministry----"

"Madeleine!"

But the tigerish look that swept over Mlle. Fouchette's face gave way to confusion when the grisette quickly s.h.i.+fted her ground.

"Monsieur Marot, I suppose."

"Yes, Madeleine."

"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry, Madeleine."

"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"

"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once more."

The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle.

Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the search was vain.

"Ah! very well, pet.i.te," the searcher finally said, with a sigh.

"Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each other like wild beasts."

Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck were as plain as print.

They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?

"Mademoiselle!"

The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.

"You know that a reconciliation between these men means----"

"That Jean Marot will be thrown into the arms of the woman he loves,"

was the bold interpolation.