Fouchette was nervous. She had been reminded of the letter by the first mention of the inspector's name. Had anybody found the letter?

Was it there still? Supposing it had been lost! What was this letter, anyhow? It must be very important, or the senders would have mailed it in the regular way. She felt that she dared not betray its presence by pushing the demand for her clothing.

"It is very curious, too," added the doctor, "how that man could identify you by means of clothing he had never before seen. He probably had information from where you came, with your description."

"Y-yes, monsieur,--I----"

Fouchette had never thought of that. It did not comfort her, as may well be imagined.

"I'll speak to the nurse about the clothes----"

"Pardon! but it is unnecessary, doctor. I only wanted to know if they were--were safe, you know. No; never mind. I thank you very much. I shall need them only when I am removed, which I hope will be soon."

In the Rue St. Jacques stands an old weather-stained, irregular pile of stone, inconspicuous in a narrow, crooked street lined with similar houses. The grim walls retreat from the first floor to the roof, in the monolithic style of the Egyptian tomb. Beneath the first floor is the usual shop,--a rotisserie patronized by the scholars of two centuries,--famed of Balzac, de Musset, Dumas, Hugo, and a myriad lesser pens.

The other houses of the neighborhood are equally oblivious to modern opinion. They consent to lean against each other while jointly turning an indifferent face to the world, like a man about whose ugliness there is no dispute. No two run consecutively with the walks, and all together present a sky-line that paralyzes calculation.

The historic street at this point is a lively market during the business day. Its sidewalks being only wide enough for the dogs to sun themselves without danger from pa.s.sing vehicles, it is necessary for the pa.s.sers to take that risk by walking in the roadway. Those who do not care to a.s.sume any risks go around by way of Rue Gay-Lussac,--especially after midnight, when the street enjoys its personal reputation. The Pantheon is just around the corner, and the ancient Sorbonne, Louis le Grand, and the College of France line the same street on the next block, and have stood there for some hundreds of years; but, all the same, timid people certainly prefer to reach them by a roundabout way rather than by this section of Rue St.

Jacques.

Mlle. Fouchette had accepted a home in the Rue St. Jacques and in this particular building because other people did not wish to live there, which made rooms cheap.

If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" you might have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that sent a long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost in some hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a little bra.s.s "judas," disclosing a little, black, hard eye. a.s.suming that this eye was satisfied with you, the slide would be closed with a snap, bolts unshot, bars swung clear, and the heavy, iron-clamped door opened by a rascally-looking man whose blouse, chiefly, distinguished him from the race orang-outang.

Once within, you would notice that the door mentioned was ribbed with wrought iron and that two lateral bars of heavy metal were used to secure it from within. It dates from the Reign of Terror.

Having pa.s.sed this formidable barrier, you would follow the tunnel to a square court paved with worn granite, enter a rear pa.s.sage, and mount a narrow stone stairway, the steps of which are so worn as to leave an uncertain footing. If it happens to be in the night or early morning, the bra.s.s k.n.o.bs in the centre of the doors will be ornamented with milk-bottles. There are four of these doors on every landing, and consequently four "appartements" on each floor; but as each wing seems to have been built in a different age from the others, and no two architects were able to accurately figure on reaching the same level, the effect is as uncertain as the stairs.

Mlle. Fouchette's "home" consisted of but a single square room fronting on the court by two windows with bogus balconies. The daylight from these windows showed a fireplace of immense size, and out of all proportion to the room, a bed smothered in the usual alcove by heavy curtains, a divan improvised from some ancient article of furniture, a small round table, and an easy-chair, and two or three others not so easy. There was one distinguished exception to the general effect of old age and hard usage, and this was a modern combination bureau, washstand, and dressing-table with folding mirror attachment, which when shut down was as demure and dignified as an upright piano.

The effective feature of a place the entire contents of which might have been extravagantly valued at twenty-five dollars was the exquisite harmony of colors. This effect is common to French interiors, where there is also a common tendency to over-decoration.

The harmony began in the cheap paper on the walls, extended to bed and window draperies, and ended in the tissue-paper lamp-shade that at night lent a softened, rhythmical tone to the whole. This genial color effect was a delicate suggestion of blue, and the result was a doll-like daintiness that was altogether charming.

The autographic fan mania had left its mark over the divan in the shape of a gigantic fan constructed of little fans and opening out towards the ceiling. A few pen-and-ink and pencil sketches and studies, apparently the cast-off of many studios, were tacked up here and there. The high mantel bore an acc.u.mulation of odds and ends peculiar to young women of low means and cheap friendships. That was all. But a French girl can get the best results from a room, as she can from a hat, with the least money.

Mlle. Fouchette had reached all of this private magnificence through a singular concatenation of circ.u.mstances.

_First_, Inspector Loup.

That distinguished penologist had laid his hands upon Mlle. Fouchette in no uncertain way.

An order of arrest was at this very moment lying in a certain pigeon-hole at the Prefecture. She had seen it. The name of "Mlle.

Fouchette" appeared in the body thereof in big, fat, round letters, and a complete description, age, height, color of hair and eyes, and other particulars appeared across the back of this terrible paper, which was duly signed and ready for service.

A tap of the bell,--a push of an electric b.u.t.ton,--and Mlle. Fouchette would be in prison.

There were five distinct counts against her, set forth in ponderous and d.a.m.ning legal phraseology and briefed alphabetically with a precision that carried conviction:

"A.--Vagrant--no home--supposed to have come from Nantes.

"B.--Consort of thieves--confession of life convict called 'le Cochon,' drawer 379, R.M.L. 29.

"C.--Go-between of robbers of the wood of Vincennes and receivers of stolen goods. Confession of M. Podvin, wine merchant, now serving term of twenty-one years for highway robbery, drawer 1210, R.M.L. 70.

"D.--Fugitive from State inst.i.tution, where sent by lawful authority.

See Le Bon Pasteur, Nancy. R.I. 2734.

"E.--Lost or destroyed public doc.u.ment addressed to the Prefecture and confided to her care under her false representation of being an authorized agent of that department of the government."

The service of this dreadful order of arrest, behind which crouched these crimes ready to rise and spring upon her, was suspended by Inspector Loup. For which tenderness and mercy Fouchette was merely to report to the Secret Service bureau in accordance with a preconcerted arrangement.

_Second_, Madeleine.

Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for his forbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Change towards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She was somewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was so limited that it was a sensation.

It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road to Charenton long, long ago!

Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under the l.u.s.trous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figure looked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through the scant bloomer bicycle suit.

The owner of this face and figure did not recognize in the other the pet.i.te chiffonniere de Charenton. That would have been too much to expect.

"Pardon! but, mademoiselle----"

Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless.

"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"

"Fouchette?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker of Charenton? But of course not,--it was long ago, and I have changed."

The other stared at her with her big black eyes.

"I was hungry,--you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind,--and I do not easily forget, mademoiselle,--though I'm only Fouchette,--no!"

"What! Fouchette--the--dame! it is impossible!"

"Still, it is true, mademoiselle," insisted Fouchette, laughing.

"Ah! I see--I know--why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'--oh! sacre bleu! To think----"

She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out at arm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet and back again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrily the while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous pa.s.sers.

Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of the pretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toned down by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath.

"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, pet.i.te!" exclaimed the bicycliste.

"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital--only a few days----"