A single look from Inspector Loup before Jean would terrify her,--a word would crush her.

She must have time.

And why did Inspector Loup come there in person as errand-boy unless for another purpose? She thought of the secret agents who usually accompanied Inspector Loup. She knew that at this moment they were spread out below like the videttes of an army. They were down in the Rue St. Jacques in their usual function of Inspector Loup's eyes that saw everything and Inspector Loup's ears that heard everything.

This visit to Jean was a mere pretext that covered something more important. Was it concerning Jean? Or, was it her? Perhaps Monsieur l'Inspecteur wanted her,--a species of flattery which would have been incense to her a month ago, and was now a terror.

It was only a few days since she had earned fifty francs and the compliments of Inspector Loup. It was true, Monsieur de Beauchamp had got away to Brussels, the centre of the Orleans conspiracy.

He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicated the change of policy as to the well-known and openly tolerated machinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orleanists in Paris and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.

Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case--he was such a handsome and such an agreeable gentleman--and had given him the straight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this good action, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought of Inspector Loup. She was only a poor pet.i.te moucharde,--a word from him--nay, a nod, a significant wink--would deprive her of the sunshine that ripens the grapes of France.

When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took the key of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lock was familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling the door shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again when she chose to come out.

She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound of Monsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her,--she knew it.

She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watch and chain episode rea.s.sured her but little,--beyond the a.s.surance that Jean was in no immediate danger.

She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking to have some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. The wall was very thick and there was ample s.p.a.ce behind her, but this s.p.a.ce seemed to give way and let her back farther and farther, unexpectedly, as one leans against an opening door.

It was a door. And it let her into the wall, apparently, and so suddenly that she lost her balance.

As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectly still for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she had made no noise.

"Dear me! but this is very curious," she murmured, feeling the walls on all sides.

She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left,--she could feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key.

All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all about Jean,--even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselessly and opened the door,--a little at first, then more boldly.

She heard nothing. She saw nothing. Whatever the place it was as black as pitch.

She now recalled the mysterious goings and comings of the friends of Monsieur de Beauchamp,--the disappearance of half a dozen at a time,--the peculiar noises heard from her side of the closet.

"Truly, this is the back shop of Monsieur de Beauchamp," said she, as she stumbled upon a box. "If I only had a candle or a match."

She felt the box, which was almost square, and was so heavy she could scarcely raise one end of it.

She groped along the wall, where similar boxes were piled up, and began to wonder what on earth Monsieur de Beauchamp had stored there in his back shop.

A startling suggestion stole into her mind,--perhaps it was----

She hastily sought the door by which she had entered, and in her excitement she stumbled against it.

The door closed with a snap.

Mlle. Fouchette was not afraid of being alone in the dark, yet she trembled nervously from head to foot.

She knew that the key was on the inside!

Then she remembered that other door only a few feet away with its key on the inside and with Jean Marot on the outside. And she trembled more than ever.

What would Jean think of her?

Of course, she knew he would be likely to force the closet door; but when he had found her missing,--what then? Would he be angry? Would he not suspect some trick? Would he persevere till he found her?

It was all about Jean,--of herself she scarcely thought, only so far as the effect might come through him. All at once she felt rather than heard the dull sound of the breaking door beyond.

"Ah! he has broken the door. He will come! He has discovered it!"

She beat the walls with her small fists,--kicked the unresponsive stone with her thin little shoes,--her blows gave out no sound. If she only had something to knock with----

She fumbled blindly in the darkness among the boxes. Perhaps--yes, here was one open, and--

"Voila!"

She laid her hand on a heavy, cylindrical substance like a piece of iron gas-pipe, only--funny, but it was packed in something like sawdust.

She tapped smartly on the wall with it--once, twice, thrice--at regular intervals, then listened.

The two similar raps from the other side showed that she was both heard and understood.

"He has found it. Ah! here he is!"

And with her last exclamation Jean appeared, candle in hand, peering into the room and at Mlle. Fouchette in the dazed way more characteristic of the somnambulist than of one awake and in the full possession of his senses.

"Mon Dieu! mon enfant, what have we here?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed as soon as he recovered breath. "What is it? Are you all right? How foolish you are, little one!"

"All right, mon ami."

And she briefly and rapidly recited her adventures, at the end triumphantly exhibiting the bit of iron pipe with which she had opened communication.

His face suddenly froze with horror!

"Give it to me!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her hand excitedly and held it an instant apart from his candle.

"A thousand thunders!" he gasped, at the same time handling the thing gingerly and looking for a place to lay it down.

"But----"

"It is a dynamite bomb!" he said, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Mon Dieu!"

She turned as white as a sheet and staggered backward only to come in contact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this as if she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quite feminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions.

"Where did you get this, pet.i.te?" he asked. "It is death,--a horrible death!"