"You think so, too, chere amie?"

"Very sure," said Mlle. Fouchette.

"Now you can understand, Fouchette. You are a woman. Put yourself in her place,--imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. And you look something like her, really,--that is, at least you have the exact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! Suppose you were Mademoiselle Remy, I was going to say, and I were to tell you all this and--and how much I loved you,--how I adored you,--and got down on my knees to you and begged of you----"

"Oh!"

"And asked you for a corner--one small corner in your heart----"

"Ah! mon ami!"

"What would you----"

"Shall I show you, mon frere?"

"Yes--quickly!"

He had, with French gesture, suiting the action to the word, knelt beside her and extended his arms, as if it were the woman he loved.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself upon his breast precipitately and entwining his neck with her arms,--"it would be this! It would be this! Ah! mon Dieu! It surely would be this!"

For the moment Jean was so carried away by his imagination that he accepted Mlle. Fouchette as Mlle. Remy and pressed her to his heart.

He mingled his tears and kisses with hers. Her fair hair fell upon his face and he covered it with pa.s.sionate caresses. He poured out the endearing words of a heart surcharged with love. It was a very clever make-believe on both sides,--very clever and realistic.

As a medical adviser of an hysterical young woman Jean Marot could scarcely have been recommended.

And it must be remarked, in the same connection, that Mlle. Fouchette remained in this embrace a good deal longer than even a clever imitation seemed to demand. However, since the real thing could not have lasted forever, there must be a limitation to this rehearsal.

Both had become silent and thoughtful.

It was Mlle. Fouchette who first moved to disengage, and she did so with a sigh so profound as to appear quite real. This was the second, and she felt it would be the last time. They would never again hold each other thus. Her eyes were red and swollen and her dishevelled hair stuck to her tear-stained face. She was not at all pretty at the moment, yet Jean would have gone to the wood of St. Cloud sword in hand to prove her the best-hearted little woman in the world.

"Voila!" she exclaimed, with affected gayety, "how foolish I am, monsieur! But you are so eloquent of your pa.s.sion that you carry one away with you."

"I hope it will have that effect upon Mademoiselle Remy," he said, but rather doubtfully.

"So I have given a satisfactory----"

"So real, indeed, Fouchette, that I almost forgot it was only you."

Mademoiselle Fouchette was bending over the basin.

"I think"--splash--"that I'll"--splash--"go on the stage," she murmured.

"You'd be a hit, Fouchette."

"If I had a lover--er--equal to the occasion, perhaps."

"Oh! as to that----"

"Now, Monsieur Jean, we have not yet settled your affair," she interrupted, throwing herself again upon the divan among the cushions.

"No; not quite," said he.

She tried to think connectedly. But everything seemed such a jumble.

And out of this chaos of thought came the details of the miserable part she had played.

Her part!

What if he knew that she was merely the wretched tool of the police?

What would he say if he came to know that she had once reported his movements at the Prefecture? And what would he do if he were aware that she knew the true relation of Lerouge and Mlle. Remy and had intentionally misled both him and Madeleine?

Fortunately, Mlle. Fouchette had been spared the knowledge of the real cause of Madeleine's misfortune,--the jealous grisette whom she had set on to worse than murder.

But she was thinking only of Jean Marot now. Love had awakened her soul to the enormity of her offence. It also caused her to suffer remorse for her general conduct. Before she loved she never cared; she had never suffered mentally. Now she was on the rack. She was being punished.

Love had furrowed the virgin ground of her heart and turned up self-consciousness and conscience, and sowed womanly sweetness, and tenderness, and pity, and humility, and the sensitiveness to pain.

Mlle. Fouchette, living in the shadow of the world's greatest educational inst.i.tutions, was, perhaps naturally, a heathen. She feared neither G.o.d nor devil.

Jean Marot was her only tangible idea of G.o.d. His contempt would be her punishment. To live where he was not would be h.e.l.l.

To secure herself against this d.a.m.nation she was ready to sacrifice anything,--everything! She would have willingly offered herself to be cuffed and beaten every day of her life by him, and would have worshipped him and kissed the hand that struck her.

Perhaps, after all, the purest and holiest love is that which stands ready to sacrifice everything to render its object happy; that, blotting out self and trampling natural desire underfoot, thinks only of the one great aim and end, the happiness of the beloved.

This was the instinct now of the girl who struggled with her emotions, who sought a way out that would accomplish that end very much desired by her as well as Jean. There was at the same time a faint idea that her own material happiness lay in the same direction.

"Monsieur Jean!"

"Well?"

"You must make friends with Lerouge."

"But, mon enfant, if----"

"There are no 'buts' and 'ifs.' You must make friends with the brother or you can never hope to win his sister. That is clear. Write to him,--apologize to him,--anything----"

"I don't just see my way open," he began. "You can't apologize to a man who tries to a.s.sa.s.sinate you on sight."

"You were friends before that day in the Place de la Concorde?"

"We had not come to blows."

"Politics,--is that all?"

"That is all that divides us, and, parbleu! it divides a good many in France just now."

"Yes. Monsieur Jean, you must change your politics," she promptly responded.