"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently, and up went his foot against the neat little boot, and the other six pa.s.sed merrily beneath.

When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whispered together earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibi stood.

Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as they walked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt at concealment.

"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking of Madeleine?"

Jean shivered. Poor Madeleine!

"What a fool a girl is to run after a man who doesn't care for her!"

"And when a man runs after a girl who doesn't care for him?" he asked, half seriously.

"Oh, then he's worse than a fool woman,--he's a man, monsieur."

They reached her neighborhood.

"Come up, monsieur, will you? It is but a poor hospitality I can offer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-ce pas?"

"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle."

Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded to let them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired.

When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up the easy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on the bed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small round oil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at her inquiringly.

"It is Poupon," said she.

"Oh! it's Poupon, is it?"

"Yes. It's a darling, isn't she?"

"It--she--is."

"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"

She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a single griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great complacency, her blonde head prettily c.o.c.ked on one side.

"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was demanded of him.

"When I cook I put it in the chimney."

"But you have other fire in winter?"

"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear,--and then, really, one goes to the cafes every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the studios, because of the models."

"Oh!"

"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And I can have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine, monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here," she continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"

She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a cupboard containing various bits of china and gla.s.sware. The cupboard was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being covered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below.

"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed," said he, "but--but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"

"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon?

Monsieur shall see."

She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the little oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.

Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his mind from sinking into its recent despondency.

"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you are not going to try to cook on that thing!"

"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, cherie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"

Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and domestic friend,--the worst that could be said of which friend was that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,--but it did not interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette.

She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish of olives.

"But----"

"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something."

"You need not have cooked anything," he protested. "A bit of bread and wine would have----"

"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieur thinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love----"

"Mademoiselle!"

"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise,--and--now, the omelette, monsieur. Let me help you."

They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two gla.s.ses of wine. She watched him drain his gla.s.s and then refilled it, finally observing, with a smile,--

"It can't be Madeleine----"

"Oh! to the devil with----" but he checked himself by the sudden recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine.

Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of his confusion.

"Is it necessary, then," he asked, cynically, "that I should be in love with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceive her.

"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate--one."

"Both, perhaps," he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette and I hate your questions."

"You hate Monsieur Lerouge, therefore you love where he is concerned."

He was silent. It was evident that he did not care to discuss his private affairs with Mlle. Fouchette.

The girl was quick to see this and changed the conversation to politics. But Jean had no mind for this either. He began to grow impatient, when she opened a box on the mantel and showed him an a.s.sortment of pipes.