Mlle. Fouchette Part 76

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 rotisserie 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 astonis.h.i.+ng, little one."

"La, la, la!"

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 Savatiere."

"Que diable! but she is--well, what in the name of all the G.o.ddesses 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 ap.r.o.n-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 pere. 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.