And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he was he would not have been able to understand the divine process by which human happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance.

"Mon ami," said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admiration gave her, "do you, then, forget what we have to do to-day?"

"Lerouge? Yes,--that's so,--at once!"

Immediately after breakfast Jean sat down and wrote a friendly, frank letter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger and expressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend.

"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your political opinions and----"

"Oh!"

"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with these conspirators."

"But, Fouchette----"

"Last night's discoveries ought to satisfy any reasonable being."

"True enough, pet.i.te."

"Then why not say so to----"

"Not yet,--I prefer acts rather than words,--but in good time----"

It is more difficult for a man to bring himself to the acknowledgment of political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law.

In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed the breakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace.

"It is very singular," he repeated to himself after she had departed upon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl--really, I don't know just what to think of her."

So he ceased to think of her at all, which was, perhaps, after all, the easiest way out of the mental dilemma.

The fact was that Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming necessary to him.

With a light heart and eager step she tripped down the Boulevard St.

Michel towards the ancient Isle de la Cite. On the bridge she saw the dark shadow of the Prefecture loom up ahead of her, and her face, already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as she thought of her moral freedom.

The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-pa.s.sers, but this did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching a recognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette.

The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric shock. She stopped short,--so suddenly that those who immediately followed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavily veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.

"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,--a voice which startled those who dodged the physical shock,--and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She loves!"

It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Prefecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame.

Ah, ca!

And after years of servitude,--from childhood,--some of it a servitude of the most despicable nature,--she had at last struck off the shackles!

No,--she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom she feared and hated for one she loved--adored!

Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and boldly past the very front door of the Prefecture,--"like any other lady," she would have said.

An agent of the Prefecture, who knew her from having worked with her, happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.

"Something is in the wind," said he.

But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter the Prefecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.

Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring to accost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence.

It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in the dance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yards before a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with an oath.

"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems to be a feminine chase." And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt.

Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Prefecture and made straight for the Hotel Dieu.

Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidently growing more and more agitated.

And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from the Prefecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossing the broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three going the same way would not have attracted attention.

Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a letter from her bosom.

"That letter! Sacre! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled woman, aloud.

"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.

Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.

"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.

The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.

"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"

"Go! I must have that letter!"

She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye ablaze with wrath.

"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Prefecture!"

"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to free herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."

"Your best friend, too!"

"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.

"Oh, no; not quite,--only an agent from the Prefecture, my bird."