Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.

Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost intangible,--like the millionaire employer to his humble workman, covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.

When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she would have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, by accident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first time he had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume to detain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her and talk to her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was getting along,--condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the moment in a former servant.

In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la vie joyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Pet.i.t Rouge." It attracted the attention of his a.s.sociates.

"First Lerouge, now it's Jean," growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafing along the quais nights,--it's malaria."

"He's greatly changed," remarked another student.

"It's worry," said another.

"Probably debts," observed young Ma.s.sard, thinking of his chief affliction.

"Bah! that kind of worry never pulls you down like this," retorted a companion.

"Now, don't get personal; but debts do worry a fellow,--debts and women."

"Put women first; debts follow as a necessary corollary."

"He ought to hunt up Lerouge. What the devil is in that Lerouge, anyhow?"

"More women," said Ma.s.sard.

"And debts, eh?"

"Oh, well," continued Ma.s.sard, "if she is a pretty woman----"

"She's more than pretty," cut in George Villeroy,--"she's a beauty!"

"Hear! hear! Tres bien!"

But the student turned to the "subject" on the "dressing-table,"

humming a gay chanson of Musset:

"'Nous allons chanter a la ronde, Si vous voulez.

Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blonde Comme les bles!'"

"A man never should neglect his lectures for anything, and that's what both Lerouge and Jean are doing," remarked a serious young man, looking up from his book.

"Yes, and the first thing our comrade Marot will know, he'll be recalled by his choleric father. He's taken to absinthe, too----"

"Which is worse."

"_The_ worst----"

"And prowling----"

"And moping off alone."

"What's the lady's name?"

"Mademoiselle Fouchette."

"What! the wild, untamed----"

"La Savatiere? Nonsense!"

"Here's a lock of her hair in evidence," remarked Ma.s.sard, going to a drawer and taking out a bit of paper. "It is as clear to my mind as it was to the police that Monsieur Marot had that girl, or some other like her, up here that night."

"Let me see that," said Villeroy.

"I found it on the floor the next day,--the inspector took away quite a bunch of it," continued the young man, as the other examined the lock.

"There are two women who have hair like that," said Villeroy,--"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, which is it?"

"Her name is Remy,--Mademoiselle Remy," observed Ma.s.sard; "and, as George says, she's a beauty----"

"Which cannot be said of La Savatiere."

"No; and yet----"

"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Ma.s.sard. "I never saw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette, who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up a dozen times."

"Very likely," observed Villeroy.

It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumiere was en fete. The left bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students, was especially joyous.

There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stood apart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf, gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine.

Jean Marot loved the n.o.ble span that for more than three hundred years had connected the ancient Isle de la Cite with the mainland. A long line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and n.o.blemen of every degree had lived and pa.s.sed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers, countless mult.i.tudes of men and women, had come and gone above these ma.s.sive stone arches of three centuries.

Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he a.n.a.lyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that the little winged G.o.d could have aimed so straight and let fly so unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced to a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover, Henri IV., looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly.

A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused the young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.

"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fete," said a rich contralto voice behind him.

He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face and to look into a pair of bold black eyes.

"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Marot!"

"h.e.l.lo! Madeleine,--you, Fouchette?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter gayly. "And you,--is it a day to dream of casting one's self into the Seine?"