"Oho! now I see----"

"Dubat, shut up!"

"But, mon brigadier," persisted the man designated, "it is not the man we took that night at Le Pet.i.t Rouge,--non!"

"Ah! la, la, la!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is Marot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St.

Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Cafe du Pantheon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so it is said."

"That is very true," muttered the concierge,--"and I have made the mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."

Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sous-brigadier that at once attracted that consequential man's attention.

"Then, mademoiselle," he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you can give us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"

"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau,--en quatrieme."

M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as much effect upon her as water might have on a duck's back.

Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street and number in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latter rose to take his departure,--

"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against Monsieur Lerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"

"It is very serious, monsieur," replied the man, respectful enough now; "a young woman has been blinded with vitriol."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I don't believe Lerouge could have ever done that! No, never!"

"Nor I," said Jean.

The police officer merely raised his eyebrows slightly and observed,--

"It was in the Rue Dareau, monsieur."

"And the woman? Do they know----"

"One named Madeleine, mademoiselle."

"Madeleine!" cried the girl, with a white face. "Madeleine! Mon Dieu!

You hear that, Monsieur Jean? It was Madeleine!"

"Courage, mademoiselle; Lerouge never did that," said Jean, calmly.

"It is a mistake. He could not do that."

"Never! It is impossible!"

Mlle. Fouchette wrung her hands and sought his eyes in vain for some explanation. She seemed overcome with terror.

"Parbleu!" exclaimed the police officer, in taking his leave.

"Mademoiselle, there is nothing impossible in Paris."

CHAPTER X

The first instinct of Jean Marot had been to kill Henri Lerouge.

Revenge is the natural heritage of his race. Revenge is taught as a sacred duty in the common schools of France. Revenge keeps the fires aglow under the boilers of French patriotism. Revenge is the first thought to follow on the heels of private insult or personal injury.

It had been that of the ignorant human animal called Madeleine. How the horrible design of Madeleine had chilled his blood! He was sorry for the unhappy girl with a natural sympathy; yet he would have torn her to pieces had she successfully carried her scheme of revenge into execution.

Jean took to haunting Montrouge day and night, invariably pa.s.sing down Rue Dareau and contemplating No. 7, keeping his eye on the porte-cochere and the fourth floor, as if she might be pa.s.sing in or out, or show herself at a lighted window. But he never saw her,--never saw Lerouge. He never seemed to expect to see them.

He had ceased to attend cla.s.ses. What were books and cla.s.ses to him now? He took more absinthe than was good for him.

His father's friend, Dr. Cardiac, visited him, remonstrated with him, readily diagnosed his case, then wrote to Monsieur Marot the elder.

The result of this was a peremptory call home. To this summons Jean as promptly replied. He refused to go. An equally prompt response told him he had no home,--no father,--and that thenceforth he must shift for himself,--that he had received his last franc.

Ten days later he unexpectedly encountered Mlle. Fouchette on Boulevard St. Michel. It was Sat.u.r.day evening, and all the student world was abroad. But perhaps of that world none was more miserable than Jean Marot.

"Ah! Then it is really you, monsieur?" There was a perceptible coldness in her greeting. However, his condition was apparent. The sharp blue eyes had taken his measure at a glance. She interrupted his polite reply.

"La! la! la! Then you are in trouble. You young men are always in trouble. When it isn't one thing it is another."

"It is both this time, I'm afraid," he said, smiling at the heavy philosophy from such a light source.

They crossed over and walked along the wall of the ancient College d'Harcourt, where there were fewer people. The dark circles under his handsome eyes seemed to soften her still further.

"I am sorry for you, monsieur."

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

"And poor Madeleine----"

"You have seen her, then?"

"Oh, of course!"

"Of course," he repeated.

"But, monsieur, you may not know that you were suspected of----"

"Go on," seeing her hesitation. "Of having something to do with it?"

"Precisely."

"I knew that."

To avoid the crowd and curious comment, Jean turned into the Luxembourg garden.